


Creatures of the Wind, Part 4

by Sebastian_Jack



Series: Creatures of the Wind [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandonment, Amputation, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, French, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Magical Tattoos, Multi, Romance, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Twincest, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 43,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebastian_Jack/pseuds/Sebastian_Jack
Summary: War is upon them. The Death Eaters have overrun the government, supplanted the Minister of Magic, and their reign of terror has begun. What will that mean for our sadgirl spy, and her joke shop proprietors?
Relationships: Fred Weasley/George Weasley/Other(s)
Series: Creatures of the Wind [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562572
Comments: 16
Kudos: 29





	1. Strength Through Wounding

The Death Eaters had gathered at Malfoy Manor, for a kind of premature celebration of their great victory. The broad fireplace crackled ominously, a low murmur permeating through the assembled crowd. Charity Burbage levitated at the end of the room, drifting in and out of consciousness. Clearly suffering, clearly desperate.

Rodolphus sat beside his niece, pouring all of his cruelty and malice into her ear in fervently whispered French.

“ _Le Seigneur des Ténèbres est venu pour vous favoriser au-dessus de l’enfant Malfoy. Le moment est venu d'obtenir cette faveur pour toujours_.”

Always his grand designs. His wonderful plan for her.

She nodded in careful understanding, eyes scanning over her compatriots. Voldemort sat at the head of the table, opposite Pius Thicknesse: their choice to supplant Rufus Scrimgeour as Minster of Magic. He was a small man, with long black hair and a beard streaked with silver. He had a great overhanging forehead that shadowed his glinting eyes. And he was either making very little effort to hide his terror, or doing a very poor job of it. Ophelia thought he looked rather like a crab, peering out from beneath a rock.

All eyes turned when Snape appeared like a shadow in the doorway.

“Ah, Severus,” the Dark Lord greeted, “I had begun to worry you had lost your way. Come, we’ve saved you a seat.” He gestured towards an empty chair beside Ophelia. Near the head of the table. His usual place.

Snape took his seat, casting Ophelia a momentary glance as he did. She gave him a curt nod.

“The two of you have news, I trust?” Voldemort questioned.

Ophelia knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth. It had all been arranged. “It will happen Saturday next, at nightfall.”

“I’ve heard differently, My Lord,” her uncle Corban interjected, “Dawlish, the Auror, has let slip that the Potter boy will not be moved until the 30th of this month. The day before he turns 17.”

“That is a false trail,” Ophelia dismissed, her voice ringing out oddly amongst all the men who’d been speaking. “The Auror’s office no longer plays any role in the protection of Harry Potter. Those closest to him believe that we have infiltrated the Ministry.”

“Well,” MacNair chuckled, “They’ve got that right, haven’t they?”

A wave of knowing laughter rippled across the table. Ophelia joined in, making haughty eye contact with Yaxley as she did.

The Dark Lord suddenly spoke again. “And what say you, Pius?”

The room fell silent once more, and Thicknesse squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He cast an anxious glance down towards the snake, as it slithered between the table legs.

“One hears many things, My Lord,” he said, his voice coming more strongly than his demeanor would have suggested, “Whether the truth is among them is not clear.”

Voldemort laughed, then, a high and chilling sound. “Hah! Spoken like a true politician. You will, I think, prove most useful to me, Pius.”

The corner of Thicknesse’s mouth twitched as if to lift into a smile, eyes darting around the room.

The Dark Lord grimaced, turning back to his two loyal spies. “Where will he be taken? The boy.”

“A safehouse,” Snape answered for them, “Most likely, the home of someone in the Order.”

“They’re keeping the precise location a close secret, though I’m nearing an answer.” Ophelia relayed, “And I’m told that, wherever it is, it has been given every possible measure of protection. It is my belief, My Lord, that it would be impractical to attack him after his arrival there.”

From beside her, Bellatrix cleared her throat. “My Lord?” she raised a hand, “I’d like to volunteer myself for this task.”

The table exchanged glances of varying quality. Rodolphus looked as though he were trying to shrink down into his seat, fingers playing lightly along the handle of his wand.

“Please,” Bellatrix implored, “I want to kill the boy.”

Just then, a shriek echoed up from the dungeon. It was Ollivander.

“ _Wormtail_!” Voldemort suddenly snapped, “Have I not spoken to you about keeping our guest _quiet_?”

Pettigrew slunk out from the shadows, quivering with fear. “Yes, My Lord,” he whimpered, “Right away, My Lord!” With that, he scurried off towards the dungeon.

A distinct crackle of anger shivered across Voldemort’s face, and he turned back to Bellatrix. “As inspiring as I find your bloodlust, Bella, I grow weary of reminding you that I must be the one to kill Harry Potter.”

She slunk back, head bowed in submission. “Yes, My Lord.”

Voldemort rose to his feet, drawing his wand. “However, I do face an unfortunate complication: that my wand and Potter’s share the same core. They are, in some ways, twins.”

His eyes met Ophelia’s then, and she could see a flash of deliberate cruelty in his gleaming, red eyes. But she did not shrink away, did not recoil into her seat. She held her head high, and gazed back into those hateful eyes, unwavering.

“We can wound, but not fatally harm one another,” he continued, setting his wand down, “If I am to kill him, I must do it with another’s wand.”

A tense silence was suddenly palpable in the room. All eyes were downcast, hands clasped tightly atop the table as the Dark Lord began to pace. Ophelia made eye contact with Draco. He, like his parents, seemed visibly terrified. She gave him a stern look, eyes travelling across his form. _Come on_ , she silently begged, _sit up straight. Fix your face. Do something to save yourself, you stupid little boy._ He met her gaze, but only saddened when he saw her.

Voldemort’s voice slithered from his lips in a serpentine hiss. “Come, now. Surely one of you would like the honor.” He stopped behind the Malfoys, and everyone could sense what was about to happen. “What about you, Lucius?”

The Malfoy patriarch turned slowly, gazing up at Voldemort. He swallowed hard, choking out a weak, “My Lord?” It was no more than a whimper.

“ _My Lord_?” he mocked, lip curling back into a sneer.

Lucius blinked up at him in quiet desperation.

 _Weak_ , Ophelia thought.

Voldemort extended an expectant hand down towards him. “I require your wand.”

A notable ripple of satisfaction passed through the Lestranges at this new turn of events. The entire contingent watched in cruel delight as Lucius relinquished his wand to the Dark Lord with shaking, reluctant hands.

“Do I detect… Elm?” he casually probed, testing the grip in his hand.

Lucius nodded fervently. “Y-yes, My Lord.”

“Hmm.” In one, clean motion, Voldemort snapped the shaft of the wand from its gaudy, silver hilt. Lucius visibly flinched, but the Dark Lord paid him no mind. “And the core?”

“Dragon heartstring, My Lord,” he murmured.

“Dragon heartstring?” he nodded patronizingly, “Hmm.” Without a second thought, he discarded the silver handle back down onto the table. It landed with a sickening _thunk_.

With that, he rounded on the levitating Charity Burbage. With a confident wave of his new wand, the Dark Lord drew her in nearer, until she was floating above the table. Ophelia could hear soft whimpers of fear rising from her throat. She could see the tears streaming out from the corners of her eyes, carving glistening tracks through the blood and grime on her face.

“For those of you who don’t know, we are joined tonight by Miss Charity Burbage. Who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” Voldemort sneered, “Her specialty was _Muggle Studies_.”

Low, mocking laughter rose from the seated Death Eaters.

“It is Miss Burbage’s belief that Muggles are not so different from us,” he explained. “She would, given her way, have us _mate_ with them.”

More cruel laughter. Bellatrix mimed an expressive gag, tongue thrust out between her rotting teeth.

“To her, the mixture of magical and Muggle blood is not an abomination,” he hissed, once again taking his seat at the head of the table, “But, rather, something to be encouraged.”

“P-please,” she begged weakly, eyes travelling across her collected tormentors.

With a strong-armed wave of his wand, Voldemort cried, “ _Crucio_!”

Charity Burbage screamed. She thrashed in vain, limbs shaking, eyes bulging from their sockets. The Death Eaters cheered, pounding on the table and laughing. And then, just as it ended, the Dark Lord cast a second time, and her agony resumed. Ophelia heard the moment that her vocal chords finally gave way- the sickening _pop_ , the cessation of her screams, and then a hollow sound like rushing air.

When he finally stopped, Charity Burbage was left panting and weeping. Her limbs twitched with sickening aftershocks that jerked her entire body. She met Ophelia’s gaze dead-on, and for a moment, the carefully crafted illusion threatened to give way entirely. She was mouthing something to her, lips moving weakly. And although Ophelia couldn’t say for sure what she was trying to convey, she could imagine.

“Draco?” the Dark Lord called out across the table.

Her cousin sat up straight, though his eyes darted around fervently, never quite meeting Voldemort’s gaze.

He extended an open palm towards their floating captive. “Redeem yourself.”

Draco swallowed hard, glancing momentarily at Ophelia. She gathered her brow, expression stony. He looked away, quickly drawing his wand. He shifted it uncomfortably in his grip, his mouth opened and closed in stunned silence. All eyes were upon him. Ophelia could see the weight of all their expectations resting on his shoulders. Crushing him. For a few, long seconds, she truly believed he would do it. His expression hardened, some quality in his eyes seemed to flicker and change. But then he wavered, and slunk back. The entire table seemed to exhale a collectively-held breath. Hisses of disapproval rose from the Death Eaters. Narcissa wrapped a protective arm around her son’s shoulders, holding him close as he set his wand down on the table.

The Dark Lord shook his head in chilling disapproval. “Pity.”

“ _Ophelia_.”

It was Charity Burbage. The sound had slipped from her throat in a damaged whisper, nearly inaudible. Ophelia wasn’t even sure she’d heard it at all. But she met the woman’s gaze all the same, staring into those bloodshot eyes that welled up with silent tears each time she blinked.

“Ophelia, my dear?” the Dark Lord beckoned.

Placidly, she turned to face him. “Yes, My Lord?”

“Show our friends what you’re worth.”

She watched it happen as though she were someone else, sitting somewhere else. She watched her wand being drawn from the folds of her grey robes, watched as her snake-wrapped arm extended out towards the floating captive. She saw her wrist cock back. And, before she could stop herself, her voice sounded.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

Her wrist flicked forward. There was a flash of green light. And then Charity Burbage fell to the table with a sickening thud.

“My beautiful girl,” the Dark Lord regarded, opening his arms, “Well done.”

Cheers erupted. Her uncle wrapped his arm around her shoulders, shaking her proudly. She was vaguely aware of some kind of additional praise being bestowed upon her, from the Dark Lord. Some cruel comparison to Draco. She thanked him automatically, bowing her head in demure acceptance as she pocketed her wand again. The snake sprang up onto the table, and began to devour the corpse.

But Malfoy Manor and the Death Eaters seemed miles away, as though she were watching them through a distant window. Something inside of her had just been broken, forever. She’d felt the snap deep in her chest, like someone had plucked at her heart like a violin string. _There’s a piece gone_ , she thought hazily, _something’s been chipped away, and I don’t think it will ever grow back._

The meeting continued around her, and Ophelia Lestrange resumed her stoic, watchful silence. Chin thrust high, delicately tattooed hands folded regally atop the table. But something was screaming inside her head. Her eyes remained unfocused on the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and writhe as though it were obscured by an imperfect pane of glass.

When the Death Eaters began to Disapparate, she dutifully followed suit. But she did not travel to Sayre’s, or follow her family to Château Lestrange. She didn’t go to 93 Diagon Alley, or even Number 12 Grimmauld Place. She placed herself on a remote hilltop, deep in the Highlands. And there, she fell to her knees, and instantly vomited. It burned her throat, stung her eyes. The foul taste lingered on her tongue no matter how many times she tried to spit it out.

Though the stars were bright overhead, forming a nearly seamless band of light across the black sky, there was no moon. The grass underfoot was wet with dew, and a high wind whipped over the dark, untamed tract of wilderness. It was bitterly cold.

She was heaving deep, empty, gulps of air; strangely unnerved by the exposure. And as she stared down at her shaking hands, all the terror she’d worked so carefully to suppress suddenly hit her in one single, apocalyptic wave.

“ _Moris Statim_ MMM!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, the words rising to a panicked whimper.

She had been so close. So lethally close. She wanted to do it, to use the charm, that maybe the pain and terror and constant, unyielding danger would finally end. She focused on Fred and George, letting them fill her head. The warmth of their hands against her bare skin, the feeling of their hair between her fingers. Their smell.

“ _Moris Sta_ — Ahh, fuck, fuck, _FUCK_!” she sobbed.

She couldn’t do it. Staring down into the void, she couldn’t bring herself to step out into it. Despite the pain, the fear of the state change suddenly seemed an entirely insurmountable thing. So, she remained paralyzed on the edge, arms wrapped around herself as she knelt on the darkened hilltop. And without really planning to, she threw her head back and screamed. She screamed that it may purge her of what she’d just done. She screamed until she heard a pop, and all that remained was the hollow sound of rushing air.

.

.

.

The following morning, she awoke in her flat above Sayre’s Crimson Door, with only the vaguest recollection of having Apparated home. Still dressed in her Death Eater’s robes, she rose on unstable legs, and tried to cross the room to the ensuite. But she stumbled on her high-heeled boots in the process, twisting her ankle, and cascading to the floor in spectacular fashion.

She didn’t have the will to rise again. So, there she remained, cheek pressed against the filthy floorboards. Not crying. Just blank-faced and numb. She made a weak effort to speak, but found she could produce no more than a crackling whisper. It felt as though someone had forced a fistful of hot sand down her throat. Trying to swallow was incredibly painful.

After a minute or so, a knock sounded from the door. When she did not respond, her landlord, Faolan Sayre, entered anyway. He gnawed on a mirthless chuckle at the sight of her.

“Madame Lestrange,” he greeted sarcastically, “Looking resplendent as ever, this morning.”

She offered no reply.

“Memorable evening?” he prodded, “Or, perhaps not.”

“I killed someone last night,” she rasped weakly, turning her head to face him. She wasn’t sure why she said it, least of all to Faolan Sayre.

He chuckled. “Your first?”

She nodded, blinking hard.

“Could’ve guessed, the way you’re throwing yourself around up here.” He smirked. “Who was it?”

With some physical difficulty, she confessed, “Charity Burbage. That… That missing Hogwarts professor.” In an odd way, she realized that maybe she just needed someone to _know_.

“ _Hah_! I should’ve guessed that you lot were the ones who had her,” he casually remarked, taking the copy of _Malleus Maleficarum_ that the twins had given her from atop the armoire and inspecting it admiringly. “Now, _this_ is a rare treasure! Where ever did you pick this up?”

Despite her exhaustion, Ophelia’s anger spiked quickly. “Put it down.”

Sayre paid her no mind, flipping it open to inspect one of the engravings. “What’ll you take for it?”

“Your head on a stick,” she rasped, “ _Put it down_.”

He clucked in disapproval, setting it down to instead fiddle with her silver Death Eater’s mask. “Charity Burbage,” he mumbled, “That filthy Muggle lover. I ought to have you autograph one of the missing person posters for me, girl. It’d be a lovely thing to hang in the shop.”

“Don’t make me do that,” she protested weakly, rolling onto her back.

“Could make some money off of it, not that you need it. I know your old pal Mr. Borgin would jump at the opportunity to flog a few.”

“Enough,” she rasped.

“Imagine that,” he laughed, setting her mask down, “All the little first year Slytherin brats pinning them up beside their beds. Your signature scrawled across the photograph, black lipstick print right on that ugly—”

“ _Faolan_ ,” she finally snapped, voice cracking painfully. He fell silent, perhaps remembering who she was. She swallowed hard, massaging at her throat.

“You poor, poor little dear,” he murmured, shaking his head, “Come on, get up.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Get up,” he pressed, “I’ve got something you’ll like.”

Wearily, she pushed herself up off the floor. If indulging whatever this was would make him leave her alone, then indulge him she would. He led her down into the shop, and began rummaging through his cabinets. She fell gracelessly to the leather chair, watching him with no real interest. After a moment, he emerged with an ancient-looking knife. The blade was small and curved, affixed to the end of a long, onyx handle. When he brought it towards her face, she caught him by the wrist.

“Relax,” he dismissed, jerking his arm from her grip.

She snarled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Putting the mark of a killer on you,” he explained, “So that you, and everyone you meet, will always know exactly what you are.” He pointed to his own face, to a trio of small, black X’s carved along his right cheekbone.

In her weakened, irrational mindset, it seemed precisely the thing she wanted. She gave him a nod, settling back down into the chair. He took her jaw in his large hand, tilting her head side to side with little consideration.

“I know Dolph’s work when I see it,” he remarked, tapping the hilt of the blade on her silver, teardrop earring, “But I wish you’d tell me who did your nose.”

She rolled her eyes, wearily announcing, “You did, Faolan.” At the very least, she was glad her Memory Charm had stood the test of time.

He laughed, pressing his thumb along her cheekbone. “Right. Look at you. All of eighteen, and already covered in Lestrange brands. They’re a load of wand-dependent fools, I say. No, the old ways are always better. Now be a good girl, and hold still. I don’t want to carve out that big, pretty, purple eye of yours.”

She did not react, when the blade sunk into her flesh. She didn’t cry out or screw up her face when he dragged it the inch or so across her skin, despite the strange, searing sensation. Not for the first stroke of the X, nor the second. It was different than that long night at Château Lestrange. It was more painful, but there was some quality to it that, somehow, felt more superficial. It didn’t make her entire body ache, the way the magical brands had. Didn’t make her soul scream. But it set the surrounding flesh on fire. Thankfully, it was over quickly. When he withdrew, a persistent throb lingered in her skin. Tentatively, she brought her fingertips to her face.

“Don’t touch it,” he scolded, swatting her hand away. “Stupid girl. Here—” He thrust a small mirror into her hand.

The sight of her own reflection was alarming. But not because of the brand on her cheek, that had suddenly become a very distant concern. Looking in the mirror, she finally noticed the single lock of silver-white hair that now descended from her part, framing the left side of her face. She ran her fingers through it, brow furrowed.

“That’ll happen,” Sayre callously explained, “After a night like you’ve just had.”

Her mouth opened and closed in dumb silence, as she tilted her face side to side. Perhaps, if she’d noticed her hair, she wouldn’t have let him brand her. Somehow, that made logical sense. But it was too late, now. The tiny, black X had been carved into her cheekbone forever. Like Sayre had said, a constant reminder of what she was.

A killer.

She put the mirror down, suddenly afraid she’d be sick. He laughed, sheathing his sinister blade, before taking her by the wrist and slapping it into her open palm.

“What’s this for, then?” she asked, wearily.

“If you think there won’t be more, you’re wrong,” he said, not without a touch of cruel relish, “And I won’t always be around to do it for you.”

She rolled her eyes, but pocketed the blade nonetheless.


	2. Gravity

It was with a heavy heart that Ophelia descended the stone steps to the Malfoys dungeon. She sank to the floor in a defeated heap, slumping against the bars.

“Charity,” Ollivander whispered from the darkness, “Is she dead?”

She nodded, vision beginning to swim.

“Did you…?”

“He made me,” she choked out. _But did he_? she wondered, _Draco refused. I could’ve refused._

The silence that followed was long, and heavy.

“They were never going to let her walk out of here alive,” he said, all too kindly, “She understood that. At least it’s over, now.”

“I’ll get you out,” she offered, in a voice that was soft and earnest, “Right now. I’ll open this door and Apparate you to the Weasleys.”

He did not answer.

“Please,” she begged, “Let me save you like I couldn’t save her.”

“They’d know it was you.”

“I don’t care,” she insisted, “We can both run off, together. Right now.”

Another length of silence passed before he responded.

“No,” he said definitively, “It’s too big a risk.”

“I don’t care!” she nearly shouted.

“ _Shh_!”

She pressed her eyes shut. “I don’t care,” she repeated, more softly this time, “What good am I, if I let you stay in there?”

“And what good am I, if I let you ruin your cover to save me? No, there are bigger, more important things in this world,” he said definitively, “He won’t kill me. Loathe though he may be to admit it, he needs me. He hasn’t found the wand, yet, and even when he does, it won’t work for him.”

Ophelia sniffled, brushing the tears from her face. “What?”

“It was never his, in the first place,” Ollivander sighed, leaning against the bars.

“Never his? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head wearily, “I don’t’ know. Just a theory. Ramblings of an old man.”

“Tell me,” she urged.

“I believe,” he cautiously whispered, “That the Elder Wand lies with Albus Dumbledore. And if what you’ve told me is true, and I’ve no reason to doubt you, then… The Wand has allied itself with none other than Draco Malfoy.”

She thought hard for a moment, replaying her memory of that horrific night, trying to see what he was seeing. Perhaps he had gone mad, perhaps this truly was the rambling of an old man— _No_.

“Draco disarmed him,” Ophelia gasped, leaning in closer, “That night, Draco was the last person—”

Ollivander’s eyes fell closed as he nodded in confirmation. “Precisely. Wands are fickle things, my dear. The Elder Wand in particular. And if its master was defeated in a duel, then… There’s no telling what it would’ve chosen to do.”

“Draco,” she murmured, eyes wide, “Draco, my god…”

“This is all a theory, of course,” he defended, “And I’m no expert. I can tell you he’ll be after Gregorovitch, next. And then Gregorovitch will send him to Grindelwald, and he’ll have to break into Azkaban again, and after all that, he’ll only end up…”

“Back here,” she finished, the realization hitting her like a wave, “Back to you. You’re sending him on a wild goose chase.”

Again, he nodded.

“You’re stalling him,” she stammered quietly, “You’re— My god, you’re putting yourself in so much danger!”

The corner of his mouth twitched with the hint of a smile, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “You’ve gotten into the habit of telling me that the world needs Garrick Ollivander more than it needs Ophelia Lestrange. But in truth, my dear, the things that are happening now will come to transcend the both of us. But I’m here, now,” he mused, lightly rattling the bars on the door, “Locked up in this cage. And if I can buy the Order some time, buy Harry some time, then… Well, we may yet have a shot at winning this war.”


	3. Creatures of the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys. We've made it to the titular chapter. We've done it.

The moment she materialized on the darkened lawn, she could hear raised voices from inside the house.

“ _DEATH EATERS_!!!”

“ _Mum, get George upstairs_!”

“No, wait!! Stop!!” She fell to her knees, shaking hands raised in surrender, “It’s me!” _Oh, god, what’s happened to George?_

Remus, Kingsley, Bill, and Fred ran out into the yard, wands brandished combatively.

“Who is that?” Remus demanded, “Identify yourself!”

“It’s me!” she called back, “It’s Ophelia!”

“O?” Fred immediately pocketed his wand, moving to sprint for her.

Kingsley put a hand out, catching him by the chest. “Wait.”

“What’s happened to George?” she begged, voice quavering in the tension.

Fred tried to answer. “God, Ophelia, he’s been—”

Remus silenced him before turning his attention to her once more. “Take your wand out with your left hand, and hold it high. Slowly!”

She did as she was instructed, holding her wand aloft, fingers splayed in surrender. She flinched when it suddenly flew from her hand, snatched up expertly as it spun through the air towards Remus.

He showed it to Fred. “Is this hers?”

“Yes!” he confirmed, frustration growing, “This is bollocks, Remus! Are you mental!?”

“Quiet!” he urged once more. With a wave of his wand, an orb of white light rose a few feet into the air above them. “Now, I want you to stand, and step slowly into the light.”

“She keeps a blade on her,” Bill whispered furtively.

Fred scowled. “Bill, you wanker.”

Remus tightened the grip on his wand. “Do as I say!” he commanded, “And keep your hands up!”

When she did, Fred had to stifle a cry into his hand. For the first time in his presence, she was draped head to toe in her slate-grey Death Eater’s robes. She seemed almost to be drowning in all of the billowing fabric. Beneath the excessive, flowing sleeves of her gown, her forearms were thrust through a set of heavy, silver gauntlets. They were carved with the same patterns and symbols as her mask, which hung from her hip. A silver, metal corset was wrapped around her midsection, ending below her breasts.

She was thinner than he’d ever seen her, cheeks devoid of color. The serrations of her ribs were visible through the plunging neckline of the gown. Her vibrant eyes shone out from deep sockets, glistening with the threat of tears. Somehow, the vile marks on her skin seemed darker than ever. His sorrow only mounted as he took in the sight of that single lock of silver-white hair, the black “X” beside her eye. For the second time, Kingsley had to hold him back.

“I’m sorry, Remus, I did all I could! You’ve no idea what he’s become, now, the things he’s doing! But _please_!” she begged, “I heard shouting about George, what’s happened to George?”

“First, answer this,” Bill called to her, “The twins’ wands, what are their compositions?”

She answered immediately and effortlessly. “George has a 13-inch Hornbeam, and Fred has a 12 ¾ -inch Dogwood! Twin cores, from the same dragon heart!”

Remus looked to Fred, who hurriedly confirmed.

“And this?” Remus held her wand up, “What about this one?”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Remus—” Fred snatched it from his hand, striding over to his lover. “14 ¼ -inch Ebony with a Phoenix core. You want her to tell you what my knob looks like, as well?”

Bill made a disgusted face at his younger brother.

“Freddie,” she murmured weakly, opening her arms to him.

He thrust the wand into her palm, before wrapping her in a smothering embrace. He clasped his hand to the back of her head, pressing her face to his chest. It was urgent, and passionate. Desperate.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” he whispered, “What’s happened to you?” He was shaking badly.

“I’ll tell you everything, I swear,” she reassured him, running her fingers through his hair. It was shorter than the last time she’d seen him, likely the result of Mrs. Weasley’s disapproval. “Please, what happened to George?”

He took her by the hand and began striding towards the house, pushing past Remus, Kingsley, and Bill, who still eyed her with suspicion. “He’s lost his left ear,” he revealed, “But he’s alive.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed, quickening her pace as they approached the door.

“Mum’s trying to get him to go to St. Mungo’s, but he says there’s no point.”

“No!” she tugged urgently at his hand as they crossed the threshold, “He can’t go to St. Mungo’s, the Ministry’s been compromised!”

Mrs. Weasley stepped into the room, carrying a handful of bloodied bandages. “Ophelia!” She appeared stunned, looking to Remus for reassurance. He nodded in reluctant confirmation.

“ _Listen_ ,” she insisted, looking between her comrades, “The Death Eaters have put together a list of enemies of the Ministry, and you’re all on it. Every one of you. They’re destroying all the birth records of people from Muggle families, and they’re combing through the Sacred 28, looking for dissidents. It’s madness. If George goes to St. Mungo’s, he’ll be arrested and tortured. They’ll snap his wand.”

Molly went pale, looking her up and down, eyes lingering on the arcane symbols etched into her skin. “What?”

“Please,” Ophelia begged, stepping over and taking her gently by the shoulders, “It’s true, I swear it.”

Their eyes met for a long moment, and then some small, nearly imperceptible thing changed in Molly’s expression.

“Yes,” she nodded, softening, “Yes, alright. Thank you, my dear.” She drew her into an awkward, one-armed hug, holding the bloody bandages out at a distance. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“ _Oi_!” a thin voice called from the sitting room, “Is that Ophelia I hear, out there?”

Her knees threatened to give way as she sprinted towards the sound.

“George!” she whimpered, shedding her cloak and collapsing to her knees beside the couch.

“Mistress mine,” he whispered, giving her a weak smile.

His face was alarmingly pale. Where once there had been an ear, the left side of his head now bore a ragged, bloody laceration, exposing slivers of white skull near the center of the wound. Blood was smeared across his face, streaming down his neck, staining his shirt. Her eyes stung with tears as she took his hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing it over and over.

“Georgie,” she murmured, combing the hair back from his forehead, “My love, what’s happened to you?”

“Oh, you know,” he sighed, “Couldn’t stand the sound of Harry Potter snogging my sister for one more second, so…”

Fred laughed genuinely, kneeling beside them. “I ‘spose that’s a right sight better than the joke you tried on me.”

“What can I say?” George breathed, bringing Ophelia’s hand to his lips. “I save my best material for the best people.”

She exhaled a monosyllabic laugh, brushing the tears from her face.

“What’s happened here, then?” he asked, running a finger through her lock of silver-white hair.

She and Fred replied in perfect unison, “ _It’s a long story_ ,” and the trio exchanged hard-won smiles.

“Honestly, now, love,” she pressed, giving George’s hand a gentle shake, “How did it happen?”

“He was cursed.” The voice had sounded from behind her, and she turned to see Mr. Weasley standing in the doorway. “By Snape.”

She furrowed her brow. “Snape?”

He nodded, beckoning to her.

She knelt to press a long kiss to George’s forehead, giving his hand one final squeeze, before standing to join Arthur in the hall. The feeling of his fingers slipping from hers tugged painfully at her heart.

“The plan worked, at least,” she observed, as soon as they were out of earshot, “Harry’s here, and he’s alive.”

Mr. Weasley sighed. “Where were you tonight, my dear?”

“Malfoy Manor,” she answered honestly, “It’s where they’re holding Ollivander, and the goblin Griphook. Down in the dungeon.”

“So, you didn’t… See any of it?”

“No.”

“And why were you the one left behind?”

If it were anyone other than Arthur, she would have felt as though she were being interrogated. “I’m a weak flyer, just ask the twins. But he trusts me alone, guarding the prisoners.” She shook her head bitterly. “If only he knew. I spent the whole night bringing them food and water, and showing them where to hide it. They’re both very weak, Arthur.”

He frowned. “Is there no way to get them out?”

“I’ve spent weeks trying to riddle it out.” She gathered her brow, “I had hoped to do it tonight. But it’s impossible to Apparate in and out of the room, so they’d have known it was me. The only way we’re getting them out is if we walk them through the door.”

“Hmm. Perhaps we could send someone in to get captured alongside them,” he suggested.

“I’d considered it. But if it comes to something like that, I’ll see them released, damn the consequences to me.”

He shook his head. “We can’t afford to lose you. You’re the only one we have on the inside, anymore.”

“I’ll more than likely end up in Azkaban, when this is all over. No matter who wins.” Her voice was calm and level, as though this were a long-held conclusion she’d made her peace with. “That is, if I live that long. So, if I have to die, let it be for something worthwhile. This world needs Garrick Ollivander far more than it needs Ophelia Lestrange.”

Mr. Weasley was stunned by her statement. At a loss, he simply took her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “Thank you,” he said genuinely, “For your honesty, and your bravery. For now, just keep bringing them food, as often as you can.”

“Of course. I’ll see they’re looked after.”

He released her hand, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. “What about Professor Burbage?”

Her stomach twisted. “Dead.”

_Tell him how, you coward._

“I thought so.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “We’ve lost Mad-Eye, as well.”

Stunned and silent, Ophelia slumped back against the opposite wall, sliding down to the floor. After a moment, she begged, “How? Who was he with?”

“Mundungus,” he replied bitterly, “He Disapparated as soon as Voldemort arrived.”

She covered her mouth, brow knit tightly.

“It _was_ Snape who cursed George,” he impressed, “ _Sectumsempra_ has always been a signature of his, and there’s no doubt in my mind, that’s the spell that took his ear.”

Ophelia shook her head in disbelief. She should’ve been here for them, she should’ve been up there, fighting, alongside her family. Her _real_ family. She rubbed her temples, trying to ground herself. _Focus on what you can change now,_ she told herself. _Focus on keeping any more from dying_.

_Like Charity Burbage?_

_Fuck._

“We need to talk about the Ministry,” she suddenly said, looking to Mr. Weasley, “There are things you all must know, before this thing really starts.”

He waved her off. “It can wait till morning. The question I have for you now is, are you safe?”

“Yes,” she reassured him, “When the Death Eaters returned, they were furious. I knew better than to linger.”

“Not unwise.”

“At this point, I’m beyond suspicion. I come when I’m called, and feed them the information Remus and Kingsley tell me to feed them, so they’ve stopped asking where I go when I’m alone. I…” she hesitated, swallowing hard, “I’ve become one of his favorites.” She knew it was nothing to be proud of. And saying it aloud made her stomach turn.

He smiled sadly, eyes wandering over her robes and tattoos. “Yes, I see that.”

_Why don’t you tell him why?_

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said, getting to her feet, “We can all sit down together, and I’ll tell you everything. Maybe we can come up with some way to help Ollivander and the goblin.”

He gave her an odd look, then, cocking his head to the side. “Come back? No, my dear.” He glanced over his shoulder, towards the sitting room. “Your place is here, tonight.”

It was as though her entire body breathed a sigh of relief. Her eyes darted towards the sitting room, and she had to blink back tears. Mr. Weasley could see it. He opened his arms to her, and she accepted his embrace gratefully.

“You’re the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had,” she admitted, oddly, “I don’t know what I would do without your family. You mean more to me than you know.”

He smiled at her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I know.” With that, he turned, and began making his way up the stairs, where Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny could be heard talking.

Ophelia turned, and made her way back into the kitchen. Molly was at the stove, boiling fresh bandages for George’s ear, gazing out the dark window. An open potions book sat on the counter, beside a simmering cauldron of that all-too-familiar green brew.

“Mrs. Weasley?” Ophelia announced her presence softly, stepping up beside her.

“Oh!” She jumped, a pained smile on her face. “Sorry, dear, you gave me a fright.”

“Can I be of any help?”

Her answer was quick, bordering on curt. “No.”

Ophelia knew how to take a hint. She began to back away, slightly dismayed.

"Actually, dear,” Molly amended, “That Wiggenweld potion ought to be about done, now. Would you take some into him, for me?”

She smiled, though Mrs. Weasley could not see it. “Of course, I’d be glad to.” Without the aid of magic, she took a mug from the cupboard, and ladled some of the steaming brew into it.

Molly watched her carefully, her expression gradually softening. “Thank you, dear.”

“You’re most welcome,” she replied, “If you need anything else, just call. I’ll be right in the sitting room.”

George smiled when she appeared in the doorway, reaching out to her. His head was wrapped in clean, white bandages, his color a little better. The blood had been cleared from his skin.

“Wiggenweld,” she explained, handing him the mug, “But be careful, it’ll be hot, still.”

“Thanks, darling.”

She kissed him on the cheek, and he slowly raised himself to a seated position. Fred was occupying a nearby armchair, watching her move about the room with a dreamy expression on his face.

George took a sip of the potion, grimacing against the distinctive taste. “Yeah, lovely,” he mused sarcastically, “I feel better already.”

Ophelia perched on Fred’s armrest, peering over her shoulder at him. “Will you take this damn thing off me, my love?” she asked, gathering her great length of hair out of his way, and nodding towards her corset laces.

Though he knew she could do it much quicker with magic, he obliged nonetheless. He knew she wanted him to touch her, and he wanted that, too. So, he set about loosening the tight knots. With a flick of her wand, she unlaced her thigh-high boots and kicked them away. She unbuckled the silver gauntlets from around her forearms, tossing them atop her discarded cloak, along with her mask. When, at last, Fred pried the metal corset from her body, she inhaled deeply. Finally, free.

“This thing’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?” he remarked, tossing the heavy corset atop the growing pile of her shed clothing. It landed with a dense _clunk_.

She never wanted them to see her dressed like this. But tonight, it couldn’t be helped. She had needed to get to them as quickly as possible. It had been the only thing on her mind, from the moment the Death Eaters returned to Malfoy Manor.

As Ophelia turned to face him, he slipped a covetous hand along her now-exposed back, looking up at her with an expression that bordered on awe. She smiled and took him by the chin, pressing her lips to his. It was a tender thing, gently done and unbearably brief. When they parted, they were only left craving more. But caution got the better of them, and instead, they let their eyes fall closed, and rested their foreheads together.

“You be careful,” Fred heeded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “You’re likely to upset someone, behaving like that.”

“I don’t care,” she breathed, feeling some of the weight leave her shoulders at the admission, “I don’t care anymore.”

If only they knew how close they all were to war. To oblivion. They wouldn’t care anymore, either.

She rose to her feet, dressed now in only the flowing, backless grey gown. Without her boots, the hem dragged along the floor as she led Fred by the hand to the couch.

“Need to lie back down,” George sighed, setting his mug on the floor.

“Come here, darling, let me hold you.” Ophelia slid in behind him, leaning him back between her legs. With the plunging neckline of her dress, his cheek laid against her bare chest. The warmth of his breath against her skin sent gooseflesh up and down her arms.

Fred sank to the floor beside them, leaning his head against her hip. She slung her arm down across his chest, and he took her hand in his. With her other hand, she began to run her long, black nails through George’s hair. He groaned contentedly.

“Sing me something, O, will you?”

Fred giggled, entirely unable to resist. “What are you gonna hear it with, your elbow?”

“Stop,” Ophelia scolded, swatting him on the chest. “What do you want me to sing, my love?”

“I don’t care,” he breathed, “Something nice.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I should’ve known you’d try to milk this for all it’s worth.”

“Mmm,” he took her hand, weaving her fingers back through his hair, “You know me too well.”

She leaned her head against the back of the couch, thinking for a moment. And then, in a soft, gentle voice, she sang:

“ _Love me, love me, say you do._

_Let me fly away with you._

_For our love is like the wind,_

_And wild is the wind.”_

The pace was slow, the melody dreamlike and melancholic. And perfect, they thought. Absolutely perfect.

“ _Give me more than one caress_ …”

The twins exhaled identical, monosyllabic laughs, each moving to kiss whatever part of her they could reach.

Smiling at the perfect irony, she continued, “ _Satisfy this hungriness,_

_Let the wind blow through your heart,_

_For wild is the wind.”_

Unbeknownst to the trio, Mrs. Weasley had moved from the kitchen to stand in the doorway, just out of sight. Brow furrowed, she watched them in silence.

“ _You kiss me,_

_And with your kiss, my life begins._

_You’re spring to me,_

_All things to me.”_

It was beyond her comprehension. This girl, with her cruel tattoos, and the sinister triangle of gold in her nose. The hollow teardrop pierced through her earlobe. Those long, black-lacquered nails running through her son’s hair, while his brother pressed his lips to her rune-stricken fingers, over and over.

“ _Don’t you know?_

_You’re life…_

_Itself.”_

The words she sang to them spoke undeniably of love. Not of friendship, or family, but love. Romance. And everything the twins did in return only echoed the sentiment.

“ _Like the leaves cling to the tree,_

_Oh, my darlings, cling to me._

_We are creatures of the wind,_

_And wild is the wind._

_Wild is the wind.”_

“Molly,” her husband whispered softly, putting an arm around her shoulders.

She looked up at him, concern etched into each of the lines on her face. “I don’t trust her, Arthur,” she admitted, “Not with our sons.”

“But they do,” he said, nodding towards the sitting room, “They always have. And we ought to trust them, don’t you think?”

She stammered, struggling to keep her voice inaudible beneath Ophelia’s singing. “Arthur—The _both_ of them!”

“It isn’t for you to decide.”

“They’re children.”

“They’re of age,” he said with finality, “And don’t forget that tomorrow, they may very well die fighting for what they believe in. You _know_ how close they came to it, tonight.”

Molly’s breath hitched in her chest. She didn’t want to believe it. “Maybe her, but…”

“If not tomorrow, then the day after. Or next week, next month. We’re at war again, my dear. And this time, they’re the young ones.”

She turned back towards the sitting room. “The _both_ of them,” she repeated, a tone of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Arthur, you don’t think they’ve both—?”

“The future of the Wizarding World will be built on their shoulders. On Harry and Ginny’s. Bill and Fleur’s,” he whispered, “And I don’t think we could hope for a better foundation than love.”

She could think of no response.

“Leave them be,” he coaxed, leading her away, “Let them be young. It may be the last chance they ever have.”


	4. Safe, Flowing Love, Soul and Light *Explicit Content*

Ophelia awoke with a start, at the sound of the Ghoul banging on the pipes. She was shocked to find herself in the twins’ room. The beds had been pushed together, like they used to do when they were kids. Fred and George lay either side of her, the morning light just beginning to filter in through the window. She could smell breakfast downstairs. The discarded pieces of her Death Eater’s robes had been placed neatly atop the dresser, her boots crumpled in a pile beside it.

“You fell asleep,” Fred whispered. Clearly, he had been awoken by the same noise. “The both of you. I had Bill help me get you upstairs.”

She furrowed her brow in concern, but he waved her off.

“Bill’s fine,” he reassured, “Anyway, he knows better than to disparage an unconventional romance.”

“Is that what the kids call it these days?” she teased with a smile, reaching out to comb her hand through his hair, “What happened to ‘meat triangle’?”

He laughed softly, dragging the silver-white lock away from her face with his finger. “I dunno what you’d call this.”

She smiled. “Well, whatever it is, I’ve missed it. Missed you.”

“Yeah,” he returned her smile, nodding in earnest. “Yeah, me too.”

“What are you lot whispering about?” George asked, the volume of his voice more jarring than anything.

Ophelia rolled over to face him. “Freddie says this is an unconventional romance.”

He breathed a sleepy laugh, tugging haphazardly at the bandage around his head. It had slipped out of place overnight, leaving his hair sticking up at funny angles. “When you say it like that, Freddie, you make us sound like revolutionaries.”

“Well…” She yawned, “Aren’t we?”

“ _You_ might be,” Fred chuckled, “Don’t you go accusing _us_ of doing anything _important_.”

Ophelia sat up, her back popping in protest, and set about helping George unwind the bandages. “No,” she teased, “You’re only rebels from the waist down.”

The twins shared a proud smile. “ _’Spose we can live with that_.”

“Oh, Georgie, it looks much better already,” she relayed, turning his head to the side to inspect the wound. Or, rather, what had been a wound the previous night. No more bleeding, no more exposed bone or viscera. Without magic, it would’ve taken a week’s dedicated work to get it to heal this neatly.

“Yeah…” He ran his fingertips gently over the scar. “It feels a right sight better than it did last night, that’s for sure.”

She leaned down and planted a kiss on his freckled temple. “Be sure to thank your mum,” she reminded him, stretching and getting to her feet.

“Where are you off to, then?” Fred questioned, lacing his fingers together and placing them lazily beneath his head.

“Yeah, O,” his brother chimed in, “I really reckon I should stay on bed rest.”

Fred nodded gravely. “Yes, I agree.” 

“So?” She began making her way around the room, bending occasionally to rap at the floorboards with her knuckles. “You don’t need me for bed rest.”

“Ah, you see, here’s the thing, though,” George impressed, “I _do_.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You really should come back over here and tend to me,” he continued, rolling onto his side and striking a sultry pose. “Laying here without you is likely to send me to an early grave. What are—? It’s that one, there!” He pointed to a section of the floor.

Ophelia chuckled, sinking to her knees and digging her fingernails into the seam between the two boards he had indicated. “Or it might motivate you to get up.”

They replied in unison. “ _Yeah, that’s likely_.”

She pried the floorboard away, to reveal the trio’s teenaged stash. Prototype Weasley products, half a bottle of fire whiskey, a few Muggle banknotes, long-forgotten phials full of who knows what dubious substance. Dozens of letters, tied up in a large bundle. Some old and yellowing, others new and crisp. All with her name on them. And, at the very bottom, a wrinkled pile of clothes. Her clothes.

The sight brought a smile to her face, as she found herself instantly transported. Back to all those long, hot summer nights, spent gingerly climbing into the window from astride Draco’s stolen broom. Nights of shared fire whiskey, and hushed, careful encounters. Stifled giggles, and awkward, blind fumbling in the pitch darkness. Of the twins blaming their accidental noises on the Ghoul in the attic, when someone shouted for them to keep it down. It reminded her of dewy mornings, trying not to slip on the slick windowsill as she made her hasty escape. Desperate kisses, stolen between impassioned whispers, as she forced herself to turn away. Those final, feverish touches lingering on her skin, as she flew high and fast and into the sun, to avoid Molly’s keen eye.

No cruel tattoos, no missing ears. No war. Just their naïveté. The innocence of their silly little forbidden love story. _God_ , she realized, heart sinking, _that was only three years ago_. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed.

She scooped her clothes out of the secret compartment, carefully replacing the floorboard, pushing it back into place with her bare foot. With a wistful smile, she looked up at her lovers, still lying beside one another on the bed. No longer the gangly teenage boys she’d fallen in love with: those long-haired, careless thieves. Somewhere along the way, they’d all grown up. It had happened right before her eyes, and yet, she hadn’t noticed until that very moment. _Older and wiser_ , she thought strangely. But still wild. Still headstrong. And still madly in love.

Ophelia couldn’t help herself. She set her clothes on the foot of the bed, before leaning down and kissing them. Twice each, back and forth. Her sweet, beautiful boys. Her brave, brave men. They made soft sounds of surprise at the touch of her lips, reaching out after her as she retreated into the ensuite.

A wave of her wand set the shower running, and she shrugged the grey gown from her shoulders and let it pool around her feet. Stepping into the warm water, she closed her eyes, and tilted her head back in the stream. Her great length of hair saturated with water, growing heavy as it hung down her back.

It wasn’t long before she felt it. The hand on her waist, spinning her around. And then lips against hers, stealing her breath away. Fred. She couldn’t pinpoint how she knew, but she did. It was like she could feel the truth of him in her soul. She kneaded her fingertips into the muscle on his freckled chest, clinging to him so she wouldn’t slip on the wet tile. A second set of hands soon followed, running up her tattooed back in a move that was slow and fevered and possessive. He put a hand on her hip, pressing his hard length against her ass.

She gasped, leaning into him. “What happened to your bed rest?” she asked, breathlessly, lips brushing against Fred’s.

“Couldn’t be arsed,” George chuckled in a husky whisper. He wrapped his hand in her hair, tilting her head back and drawing her into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. She moaned into it, as Fred leaned in to press his lips to her smooth neck. Trapped between their bodies, head fuzzy from the steam, she realized there was more muscle on them than she could ever remember. _Has it really been so long?_

Fred buried his face into the crook of her neck, taking her hand from his chest and wrapping it around his cock. His breath hitched when she squeezed, sending vibrations rippling through her skin. George began to thrust against her ass in a slow and torturous rhythm, nose pressed into her cheek, breathing through gritted teeth. She matched his pace, stroking his brother’s cock. Fred braced his hand against the slick wall, tossing his head back and exhaling a loud, broken moan.

“Shh!” she admonished, pausing her ministrations.

He leaned down to press their noses together, placing his hand over hers and dragging it back and forth again. “He…” Fred gasped, lips brushing against hers, “He cast _Muffliato_ before we… Before we came in here.”

“Shush us…” George panted, and she could hear the laugh in his voice, “Like we’ve never done this before…”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, letting her tongue meet Fred’s through their parted lips.

“Sod it, I’ve had enough of this,” George announced in a strained, heavy voice, turning to shut the water off. Fred and Ophelia couldn’t argue, letting him drag them back out into the bedroom.

The trio fell to the beds, instantly soaking the sheets. Her wet hair stuck to her shoulders as they laid her back. George reclined beside her and took her by the jaw, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. The taste of him, god, the sound of his voice. Her moans rose to a stifled cry when she felt Fred’s face between her legs. She couldn’t help but fall into the selfish pleasure of it. Indulgently, she spread her legs wider, gasping soft encouragement, inviting him deeper.

“God,” he exhaled, voice vibrating against her skin, “You’re so fucking wet.”

“We were in the shower, you— _Fuck_!” she cried, back arching. He had abruptly thrust two fingers inside of her, pressing upwards. George laughed against her lips as Fred dove into her ravenously, letting his teeth come together around her clit and sucking hard. It wasn’t long before he’d fallen into her rhythm, using his fingers and tongue to tease her higher and higher until her thighs were trembling wildly in his hold. He loved it. Her body bent to his will, and the soft sounds that rose from her throat told him he was so wanted.

All at once, she was aware of how empty she felt. She tried to tighten around his fingers, to satisfy the need, but it wasn’t enough. “Get up here and fuck me properly,” she commanded, tugging lightly at his hair.

He groaned aloud to hear it spoken so frankly, and the vibration of it made her buck in his arms. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Before she knew what was happening, she was empty. Her hands tugged feverishly at his shoulders, pulling him up from between her legs and into her arms again. She reached down between them, impatient, taking hold of his hard length and guiding him towards her. He groaned at the touch of her hand, craving her warmth and her desperation as she led him by the cock into the shelter of her body, like she needed him as much as he needed her.

He wrapped his hand over hers and let himself be led, and their voices rose together at the union, but neither had the patience to savor it. He wanted to fill her, he wanted to feel her come while he was inside her. It was a singular, all-consuming thought. She tightened around him, maddened by the sensation of his cock stretching her so wide, thrusting so hard and so deep that it was nearly painful. Nearly.

And then George took up the assault on her clit. Her voice rose in pitch and volume, and she quested blindly for his cock. When she found it, almost impossibly hard, his fingers only became more insistent.

“Oh, fuck—” she gasped, body already beginning to tighten in anticipation, “Oh, fuck, I can’t… It’s too much, I— _Ah_!”

She knew she must’ve had a death grip on George. But she couldn’t stop. Shockwaves of blinding pleasure passed through her body, and she was unable to move. Her face froze, open-mouthed, as she clenched and unclenched around Fred’s unrelenting length.

Color rose to his cheeks, making each of his freckles stand out dramatically. He pressed his eyes shut, straining against the rapidly building pleasure. It was making him lightheaded. So lightheaded that he didn’t realize he was about to come until it was too late.

“Fuck,” he breathed in an almost panicked voice, thrusts becoming faster and more erratic, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuu_ —”

He plunged himself as deep as he could manage, and let go. He grunted each time his cock jerked inside her, releasing jet after jet of semen, grinding his length against the tight walls of her.

Fred fell into her, a clash of teeth and tongue.

“Oh fuck, give me a minute,” he gasped, resting his forehead against hers.

“Sod off, _a minute_ ,” George mocked, shoving him away by the hip. “You _had_ your minute.”

“Oi!” He collapsed to his back on the bed, breathing hard. A light sheen of sweat clung to his body, hair still wet from their failed attempt at a shower. “It’s been a while. And it was longer than a minute, anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter, love,” Ophelia laughed breathlessly, rolling over to kiss him, “Quality over quantity.”

Fred exhaled a monosyllabic laugh, shaking his head.

“Oh, is that so?” George challenged, yanking her over to him and throwing her long legs over his shoulders. He dipped between her thighs, running his tongue over her slick folds in a single, smooth motion.

Her toes pointed, heels pressing into his back. “George, that’s such a _ghastly_ thing to do,” she moaned.

That seemed to flatter him, and he withdrew, turning her over onto her stomach. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.” He leaned in, pressed the head of his cock against her opening; just a blunt tease. “Go on, then—” he coaxed, “Ask me nicely.”

She laughed, trying to cant her hips into him. “I’ll do no such thing, George Gideon.”

He withdrew, as quickly as he’d been upon her. “Then I guess you won’t get fucked. Sorry.”

“Oh, is that so?”

She sat up onto her knees and leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched. She ran her hand up the side of his neck and took a rough handful of his hair, as far from his damaged ear as she could manage. Tilting his head back. He exhaled a wavering groan, laughing nervously. With her other hand, she reached between them and brushed her fingertips across the glistening tip of his cock. When he shuddered, she breathed a confident laugh.

“How about _you_ ask nicely?” she condescended.

Behind her, Fred laughed appreciatively.

George cast her a wry smile. “I would, but, here’s the thing, O: I’m well stronger than you, so I don’t reckon I have to.”

Before she could anticipate it, he swept her legs out from under her, and she fell to her back. Her head landed hard in the crook of Fred’s shoulder, and he yelped in surprise, brushing her hair away from his face.

“Oh, you bastard!” she laughed, kicking weakly.

George sat back on his knees, dragging her hips up into his lap. Before she could tease him any further, he spread his thighs between hers and drove into her hard. She cried out ecstatically at the sheer, unexpected pleasure of it. Ironically enough, he had always treated her more roughly than his brother. And that was a pattern that held true as he gripped her by the hipbones and began to lay into her. Fred wrapped an arm up under her neck, tilting her face towards his with his free hand. Their lips met sweetly; such stark contrast from what George was doing to her.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Ophelia,” he panted, thrusting an arm beneath her hips and leaning forward to grip the headboard with his free hand. Loathe though he was to admit it, Fred had a point: it had been a while. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He couldn’t take it. His voice rose, lights beginning to pop in front of his eyes. The muscles in his legs tensed suddenly, thrusts turning short and deep, and with one final plunge, he froze within her and all of the tension coiled within him was released. He cried out each time his cock jerked and pulsed in her tight grip; one, two, three, four, five, _six_ times. Her fingers dug into his thigh, forcing him deeper, drawing forth every drop from him.

He was still blinking away the haze when he became aware of Fred’s laughter. “Yeah, alright, Georgie! What was that about ‘a minute’?”

He shook his head, combing the hair back from his face. “Shut up!”

Fred just laughed harder. “Pathetic.

“Neither of you are off the hook yet, you know,” Ophelia interjected, still panting. In a swift, graceful movement, she flipped them over to sit astride George’s hips. “ _Especially_ you, George Gideon.”

“Oi!” Chagrined, he pulled her down into a kiss.

“Yeah, I reckon I’m ready again,” Fred announced, clambering to his knees behind her.

“Hey, I’m not!” George laughed, trying to hold fast to Ophelia as she pressed back into Fred. “Fuck!!”

“That’s fine,” Ophelia said, letting Fred draw her up against his chest, “You’re on bed rest.”

With that, Fred began to press in alongside his brother. His free hand slipped up her stomach, coming to rest lightly on her throat.

“Don’t I get a say?” George grinned, settling in contentedly.

Fred and Ophelia answered in unison, half-laughing a simple, “ _No_.”

Fred’s lips brushed against her ear as he breathed words of feverish encouragement through clenched teeth, drawing more of those impassioned sounds from her throat with each painstaking centimeter he sank into her.

They could feel George shuddering beneath them, and they watched his wide eyes flit back and forth between their faces. Awestruck. Enamored. Along for the ride.

Impatient, Ophelia reached back to take hold of Fred’s thigh, taking him the rest of the way inside her.

“Oh my god,” George cried, back arching, knees rising reflexively. Oversensitive, overstimulated.

Fred carefully resumed his thrusts, clinging to her so tightly that, in his covetousness, he hoped he’d melt into her completely. In that moment, if he could’ve occupied the space under her skin, between her bones, that just might’ve been enough to satisfy what had suddenly become an urgent physical requirement: fill this woman entirely. Feel her wrapped around every part of him.

The feeling of Fred’s breath on her neck thrilled her. The sight of George beneath them both thrilled her, his hands drifting so covetously across her skin as he did his best to keep up. For Ophelia, the world had dwindled down to nothing. Only the time and space they occupied existed anymore. She lived within her own whispered name as it brushed past her ear on two tongues. She would have drawn it like the breath from their throats to possess the very sound of it. Their intangible secret given form.

They wore on longer, this time, lost in the blind haze of one another. Fred could feel her quickening in his arms, her fingers pressing insistently into his thigh as he thrust into her, the muscles in her neck straining against his cheek. Every move she made, ever move George did, brought him closer to the edge. But he held back desperately, despite the pressure that spiked each time he bottomed out inside her. He wanted to finish together. And he could tell they were both so close.

Ophelia’s voice trembled with quiet desperation as she gasped, “Oh fuck, Freddie, I’m coming.”

He moaned into her neck, letting his eyes fall closed as his thrusts turn short and deep, his body aching with the anticipation of release.

“I’m coming—I’m— _Ah_!”

A hot surge passed through her, lightning in her veins, and she cried out in some wordless exaltation. Seizing around them both, clenching and unclenching. It came in waves, wracking her body with a pleasure akin to catharsis. Fred and George, for their part, were all too glad to follow. With a hand on the back of her neck, George rent her down into a rough kiss, moan vibrating past her tongue. Fred fell forward to grip at the headboard, leaning heavily against Ophelia’s back, hanging on for dear life is the climax wracked his body.

They were still for a long time, all slick skin and breath and racing heartbeats, trying to cling to the moment before it slipped away. And then George panted, “Now? We— Fuck, we off the hook, _now_?”

Fred and Ophelia answered in unison, half-laughing a simple, “ _No_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant this to be a kind of parallel to their first-ever time together. Chapter 15 of part 1, if you'd care to re-visit.
> 
> Don't read into this note for any reason.


	5. Wolf in the Breast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's my body  
> Puzzles the trick in me  
> I lend it out to borrow  
> It might survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a reminder as to what her charm does, see chapter 2 of part 3.

“Every time we see you, it’s like they’ve chipped another piece away,” Fred observed, gently running his finger through her lock of white hair. “You can see it. There’s just a little less of you, each time.”

Ophelia was curled up on her side, between his legs, as he reclined against the headboard. George lay facing her, head propped up on his hand while he traced his fingertips across her protruding ribs. She pressed her cheek into her lover’s bare chest, oddly consumed by the freckles that covered nearly every inch of him. _I ought to count them_ , she mused. _I wonder how long it would take me?_ Maybe, if she tried, the war would be over by the time she finished, and they’d still be in this bed together.

“Honestly, O, I was afraid I would end up snapping you in half, earlier,” George admitted, “You know… During…”

“That’s ‘cause you’re always mean to her,” Fred jibed, giving him a light kick. “ _During_.”

He kicked him back. “At least I keep it interesting!”

“If that’s what you call making her hold on for dear life until you get it over with, then sure, Georgie. You keep it well interesting.”

When their repartee failed to break her solemn silence, their anxiety only deepened.

“Oi,” Fred prodded, giving her a gentle shake, “Do the court jesters no longer amuse, Princess?”

She blinked a few times, looking up at him with a sort of distant, hazy expression. “What?”

_Forty-two. She’d gotten as high as forty-two_.

“Hey,” George shuffled closer, brow furrowed with deep concern. “You’re usually in a bloody insufferable mood, after. What’d we do wrong?”

She shook her head, gazing up at him imploringly. “Nothing, my darlings. I promise.”

George glanced furtively up at his brother, before leaning in even closer. “You can tell me the truth. It’s Fred’s fault, isn’t it?”

“Easy!” Fred kicked at him again, but George grabbed him by the ankle.

“I promise, O,” he implored, beginning to giggle, “I won’t ever let him fuck you badly again.”

Even Ophelia had her limits, and with that, she finally smiled. “Freddie can do whatever he wants with me. He really is the handsome one, now.”

“Aw, that’s my girl!” Fred chuckled victoriously, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Although,” she mused aloud, “If I’m going to be stuck with a scarred-up Weasley brother, I may as well try for the pretty one, don’t you think?”

“ _Hey_!” they admonished in unison.

“I rather think I’m his type, don’t you?”

“As if Billy could handle _two_ French princesses,” Fred scoffed, indignant.

She laughed. “I don’t know, I’ve managed to handle the two of _you_.”

When they faded into solemn silence again, George finally asked the question they’d been so carefully avoiding. “What made your hair go white, Ophelia?”

Her heart sank, and she pressed her eyes shut. _Just let me hold it at bay for a little while longer._

“And what’s this for?” Fred added, tracing a finger lightly across the black X on her cheekbone. “I saw it last night, and I thought it was just a scratch or something, so I left it alone. But now I reckon that’s a new brand.”

George nodded in agreement.

“You don’t need to worry about all that,” she swiftly negated, “I came here to take care of you, for once—”

“ _For once,”_ they scoffed.

“—not the other way around!”

“All you _do_ is take care of us, stupid.”

“No, you’ve got enough to worry about, now,” she argued.

“We’re gonna worry either way,” Fred pointed out.

“So, the least you could do is tell us what it is we’re worrying about.”

“Yeah, that way we know for sure.”

She shook her head in defiance, but she couldn’t deny: they had a point.

_Forty-two freckles. Forty-two so far._

_You have to give them something. They deserve that much._

It was a long, long time before she finally spoke. “You asked, once, about this—” she tugged at the ring in her nose, “You remember?”

The nodded solemnly, eyes fixed on her.

“It’s a _Fascinum Statimoris_.”

They blanched, replying in unison, “ _It bloody well isn’t_.”

“What, like… Say an incantation, drop dead? _That_ —?"

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that, Ophelia?”

She shook her head. “Imagine, for a moment, that the Death Eaters piece together what I’ve been doing.”

“No.”

“Imagine they give me Veritaserum.”

“ _No_!” George’s voice was beginning to break.

“ _Cruciatus_ I can withstand,” she insisted, “I’ve done it before.”

“ _You what_?”

“And I love you too much to let you die so my pain will stop. But what if I’m not a strong enough Occlumens to resist Veritaserum? Or what if Snape trained me wrong, on purpose? I won’t gamble your lives on the strength of my deception. Not yours, or Harry’s, or anyone’s.”

“ _Christ_ , Ophelia…” Fred wrapped his arms around her, squeezing so tightly she was afraid she’d snap.

“I’m not worth it,” she said softly, burying her face into her lover’s chest, “And I won’t see anyone die as a result of my carelessness.”

“Wha— _Carelesness_?” George’s panic was beginning to mount. “ _Ophelia_ ,” he pressed, “Our side, the side _we’re_ on, the one _you’re_ on, doesn’t trade lives like that! Nobody here would _ever_ ask you—”

“That’s precisely the point, though, isn’t it?”

She looked up to see that he had tears streaming silently down his cheeks. They both did. It was only the second time she’d ever seen them cry. And it broke her heart. She reached up, gently brushing the tears from Fred’s cheek.

“Nobody would ask,” she said, softening her tone slightly, “Our side doesn’t trade lives, but _their_ side does. They’ve done it over and over and over, and they’ll do it again, the moment they have to. And so, _someone_ on _our_ side has to be willing to fight like they do.”

They gaped at her in silent shock, floored by her resolution. By the horrible, dark secret she’d been carrying, all alone.

Brushing his tears away, George sat up and took her hand in his. His thumb pressed insistent circles into her palm. “You could’ve told us, love,” he implored, voice heavy with sorrow. “God dammit…”

“I would’ve told you when it was over,” she revealed sadly, “When the damage was done, and all three of us were safe, somewhere.” She looked between their tear-streaked faces. “Sometime like this.”

“Can’t you take it out?” Fred asked, running his finger over the evil charm, “When you don’t need it anymore?”

She opened her mouth as if to speak, and then snapped it shut again.

“What?”

“If it’s removed, I die. It’s bound to my soul.”

“Fuck,” Fred nearly sobbed, wrapping his arms around her again.

“And, loves,” she said, as gently as possible, “I’m probably going to Azkaban, when this is over. And when that happens, I’ll need it.”

“ _What_?” the twins demanded in unison.

“You haven’t done a damn thing to earn a trip to Azkaban, what are you on about?”

She pressed her eyes shut, heart sinking as she realized they’d worked their way back around to the underlying point.

_Forty-two freckles._

“Do you love me?” she asked, her own voice finally beginning to quaver.

“ _Yes_ ,” they replied in unison.

“Then trust me,” she begged, tears welling up in her eyes, “Just for a little while longer. And I’ll tell you everything when the war is over. I’ll tell you when we’re all naked in bed at the shop, drunk and happy and safe.”

They agreed with no hesitation, both leaning in to kiss whatever part of her they could reach. The three lovers laid back down on the bed, wrapping around each other in a quiet, solemn embrace. A tangle of warm limbs, sinking into one another until they found the place where they all fit together. George pressed his nose against her neck, closing his eyes and letting the smell of her hair fill his head. Fred lay his cheek against her shoulder, tracing his fingers along the cruel raven on her chest. He could feel her ribs pressed tightly against her skin.

They did love her. More than anything. And they did trust her.

“I hate feeling helpless,” Fred announced softly, “I hate seeing this happen to you and not being able to do a damn thing about it.”

George murmured some swift, wordless agreement.

She sighed softly, placing a hand on each of their cheeks and tilting their faces towards hers. “My loves,” she shook her head, brow furrowed, “You help more than you’ll ever know.”

After a while, they returned to the shower. This time, successfully. They lovingly washed all the heavy sadness from each other’s bodies; fingertips lingering selfishly on bare skin, tracing across freckles and tattoos in gentle, careful lines. They traded their love back and forth on soft whispers, each of them unable to say it enough times for their own satisfaction. Silent, sorrowful gazes hung on the evil charm through her nose, each time placated by a kiss; gently done and unbearably brief.

She wished she could make them understand that everything she did, she did out of love for them. She wished she could make them understand that it wasn’t their fault that she was born with an evil name, to evil people. And it wasn’t their fault that the fight was slowly killing her. It was only because of them that she wasn’t dead yet. It was their love that kept her going, kept her fighting for the right side.

Simultaneously, the twins wished they could make her understand that their love for her had no condition. There was no fine print, no implicit requirement to fulfill. They would love her no matter what she told them, no matter what she’d been forced to do. They would love her no matter what she looked like the next time they saw her, whenever that would be.

Afterwards, they stood before the mirror, naked and elbow-to-elbow, and prepared for the day. Morning sunlight streamed in through the window, catching the lingering steam as it hung in the air. Ophelia pressed insistent kisses to freshly-shaved cheeks, and they gently combed out each other’s hair. She worked the wrinkles from her old clothes with a jet of hot steam from the end of her wand, and they teased her for caring too much when she painstakingly reapplied her makeup with gentle, subtle movements of her wand. Slowly, the smiles returned to their faces. Through splashes from the sink and playful jostling, they fell back into that place where they were their best. That unique space where genuine love and easy laughter was palpable, in each brush of bare skin against bare skin, each moment of eye contact, so delicately savored.

And then, the strangest thing happened. As she gazed into the mirror, gently brushing the hair away from George’s wound, something in the reflection changed. His ear suddenly looked much more healed, and he had hair down past his shoulders. Shocked, she turned to Fred, only to find his reflection completely absent. She looked back and forth in confusion, between Fred and the mirror. He seemed not to notice, leaning in close and staring at the glass as though inspecting his own face. But nothing was being reflected, all she could see was the wall behind him. And then she caught sight of her own face. A massive, ragged scar bisected the corner of her lips, slicing its way towards her left eye. Her cheekbone bore not one but two black X’s.

Pulse quickening, she raised a hand to the mirror. But, the instant her palm made contact with the warm glass, the reflection returned to normal, just as swiftly as it had distorted. George’s hair was short again, ear looking just as ragged as the real thing. Fred’s reflection was back, following him flawlessly as he moved.

“What…?” she softly murmured, gathering her brow.

“What do you mean, what?” George asked casually, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She looked over at Fred, hand still pressed against the mirror.

He gave her a soft, questioning look. “What’s gotten into you?” he probed, leaning down and kissing her on the mouth.

She placed a hand on his cheek, eyes traveling intently across his face. “I…” she stammered, “I don’t know, you were gone.”

“I’m right here,” he chuckled, a bemused expression crossing his features, “Hey, what are you on about?”

She shook her head. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

He gathered his brow, jostling her lightly. “Quit being spooky.”

Unsatisfied, she pulled him down into another kiss; longer, this time. More desperate. “I love you,” she whispered, looking deep into his hazel eyes.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “I love you too, you lunatic.”

Fred finished the quickest, and he lingered in the doorway to drink in the sight of George and Ophelia together as a man dying of thirst. He was struck, rather suddenly, by how beautiful they were. How in love.

This was it, Fred supposed. This was all he’d ever need. It didn’t matter where they were, or what was happening outside. As long as they had each other, they’d be alright. They’d have something good and worthwhile. Something to keep fighting for.

He teased her when she dressed, donning the tight, red tartan pants she’d found beneath the floorboards. They made her look so young.

“You little punk,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” she replied, fastening the campy, bondage straps that hung from the waistband, “I still make it look good.”

George stepped up behind her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Nobody said it was a bad look.”

Fred turned to rummage through the dresser. “If you’re gonna do it, Lestrange, you may as well commit.” With a self-satisfied grin, he tossed her a well-worn Weird Sisters t-shirt; once-black, with a cracked white logo splashed across the chest. It belonged to one of the twins. Which one, she couldn’t for the life of her recall.

“Oh god, I remember that bloody thing.” When she pulled it over her head, the stretched-out neck hung off of one of her shoulders, the hem falling mid-thigh.

They laughed at the sight, George remarking, “I haven’t seen you dressed like that in years.”

“It’s absolutely perfect,” she smiled proudly, striking an exaggerated pose. “I hope you know you’re never getting this back.”

Their reply came in unison. “ _We don’t want it back_.”

“Well,” she realized, toeing at her thigh-high boots as they lay on the floor, “There’s no bloody way I’m making _them_ work now.”

Barefoot, she descended the long staircase, hand-in-hand with her lovers. When they reached the ground floor, they politely let go, so as not to upset anyone. They ate a satisfying breakfast with Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny, and Ophelia clung to George the entire time, worrying over his ear. Fred didn’t mind. He understood it was what they both needed, that morning.

After that, the rest of the Order began to arrive. Kingsley and Bill, Tonks and Lupin. When Arthur motioned for her to join them in the sitting room, the twins moved to follow her.

“Now you just wait a moment,” Mrs. Weasley chided, stepping in front of her sons, “We need to get to work on that ear, if it’s ever going to grow back.”

George sighed in frustration. “Mum, it’s not _gonna_ grow back. It was Dark magic.” He could recall, all too well, their desperate and futile efforts to remove Ophelia’s brands.

“Yeah,” Fred corroborated, rather wearily, “You can’t re-grow a cursed ear.”

“Well, we’re still going to try!” Molly snapped, “And _you_ , Fred Fabian, are going to stay here and help me with your brother.”

They both looked to Ophelia, and she met their frustrated gazes apologetically.

“It’s alright,” she reassured them, “I’ll come and join you afterwards.”


	6. Of Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Ophelia's Worst Day Ever, Part 1

Barefoot, Ophelia walked through the massive, green field that stretched out around the Burrow. Though the sun was high, a cool breeze seemed to be blowing in from the east. In her right hand, she delicately clasped a long, black cigarette.

She wanted to erase the last hour from her memory. The Order had taken the news about Charity Burbage alarmingly well, though she could sense a seed of mistrust had been planted in more than a few of them. She’d wept when she told the story, clutching her Dark Mark to her chest like she had done that long, summer night, three years ago. She begged them not to tell the twins. She’d tell them in her own time. They’d been understanding, and grateful for the information she’d brought them. But still, she couldn’t help but worry. Worry that she wasn’t doing enough, or that perhaps, she’d done too much. They called her “friend”, but kept her closer. At least Molly hadn’t been in the room, she thought bitterly.

The last words she’d spoken to Albus Dumbledore seemed to echo endlessly in her mind, torturing her. It had been that way for weeks.

“I just want to know how it will end,” she’d said, “I want to be sure of what it will cost.”

His reply had been wise, but altogether unsatisfying. “And I wish, more than anything, Ophelia, that I could give that to you. Alas, it cannot be known. All we can do is prepare, and not lose sight of that which gives us hope.”

It was then that she heard the raised voices, sounding from within the Burrow. She quickly extinguished her cigarette, vanishing the remainder with a snap of her fingers, before turning back towards the house. As she drew nearer, the voices became more and more clear, and a sinking feeling began to take form in the pit of her stomach.

They were fighting about her.

“No, you listen to me, now!” Molly chastised, “It’s all well and good, what she does for the Order, but I won’t have her Apparating into our garden in that fashion, dressed in those robes, covered with goodness knows what sorts of brands and charms, and—”

Arthur was attempting to placate her. “Molly, please—”

“ _No_!” It was George. “Why don’t you say what this is really about, mum?”

She stammered, struggling to come up with a reply.

“Out with it!” Fred chimed in, “If you’ve something to say, then say it!”

It was then that they noticed her in the doorway, brow furrowed in confusion and hurt. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley blanched, color draining from their faces. The twins strode across the room to stand either side of her.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Ophelia began softly, “I’m sorry if I—”

Arthur held up a hand. “No, my dear, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Molly doubled down, looking to her husband in shock. “Nothing wrong? Arthur!”

“Molly, we mustn’t be judgmental about appearances,” he argued feebly, “Without her, Harry would have been killed last night.”

“Yes,” she snapped, “And without her, my son might still have _two ears_!”

George clasped his lover’s hand tightly, taking a protective step in front of her. “Mum, that was bang out of order!”

“ _YOU WANNA KNOW ABOUT HER BRANDS_?” Fred suddenly demanded. The volume of his voice made Ophelia jump. She’d never heard him shout before, not out of anger. “Her sodding _family_ did that to her, the night Dumbledore died! They locked her in a dungeon, and carved her up for _hours_! It was meant to be her _reward_!”

Molly gaped at him, her expression close to horror.

George dove in. “We found her bleeding to death on the street in Diagon Alley, because _NOBODY WOULD HELP HER BUT US_!”

By then, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, drawn by the commotion.

“And that bit in her nose you’re always so keen to complain about?” Fred continued, “Do you have _any_ idea what that is?”

“Fred, don’t,” Ophelia begged softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“No!” he insisted, “They need to understand!”

Their mother stammered, eyes wide.

“ _DO YOU_?”

Mrs. Weasley shook her head, feebly.

Mr. Weasley tried to interject. “Boys, please—”

“It’s a bloody _Fascinum Statimoris_ ,” George announced bitterly.

The room seemed to gasp in unison, horrified.

“She got it placed, _while she was still at Hogwarts_ , mind you,” Fred shouted, “ _IN CASE THE DEATH EATERS EVER TRIED TORTURING HER FOR INFORMATION_!”

Across the room, Hermione uttered a soft, “Oh, no!”

“ _This_ is what fighting for the sodding Order of the Phoenix has done!” Fred pointed to her, “All this, carved into her skin, _this_ is the cost of _all our bloody information_! And I hope it _IS_ hard for you to look at! It should make you _SICK_ to see what the Dark Arts look like on a good person, because it bloody well does _US_!”

“But that’s not what this is really about, then,” George finally verbalized, “Is it?”

Mr. Weasley made another attempt to stop the row. “Listen, now, you can’t speak to your mother like that!”

“No?” Fred challenged, “You expect us to just sit here and listen, when all she does is lay into the woman we love?”

Ophelia closed her eyes, letting her forehead fall against George’s shoulder. He’d said it aloud, he’d made it real. Unavoidable. The air in the room rang with fading shouts, the tension hanging thick and electric between them.

“The… _We_?” Mrs. Weasley demanded, her tone vacant and stunned.

“Oh, come _on_ , mum,” George begged, frustration brimming in his voice, “You’ve known for _years_ , and rather than face it outright, you’ve just been picking her apart for everything _else_ she does.”

“And honestly, I don’t see how we even have _time_ for this!” Fred interjected, “Because, as you lot may recall, there’s a bloody _war_ on! A war that, without her, we’ve got absolutely _no_ hope of surviving!”

The silence that followed was as long as it was uncomfortable. Ophelia could feel George’s breathing beginning to slow as she leaned against him. Fred placed a confident hand on the small of her back, and it suddenly felt as though she were to blame for all of it. For Sirius and Mad-Eye and George’s ear. For Hedwig, and Dumbledore, and certainly Charity Burbage. She could feel the eyes on her, judging. Pitying. Blaming. She could feel the whole room waiting in tense silence for her to do something.

Ophelia Lestrange felt like a scolded child. Standing there, barefoot in her tight, tartan pants and her boyfriends’ Weird Sisters t-shirt. Makeup running down her face as she silently wept. Humiliated so deeply over such a trivial thing as this.

And before she could think better of it, she spoke.

“Mrs. Weasley,” she began, the words coming in a slow, halting manner, “Since I was fifteen years old, I’ve known that there’s nothing I could ever do to make me worthy of your sons in your eyes.”

Standing tense and tight-lipped, Molly did not interrupt.

“All I have to offer them is my love. And…” She breathed a shuddering sigh. “And perhaps, one day, my life. I’m prepared for that. All the good in me comes from them. All that I fight for lies in them. But if that isn’t enough, then I understand. And I am sorry.”

Before anyone could stop her, she strode past Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and made her way upstairs. Casting their mother one final, scornful look, the twins followed in her wake.

“Ophelia!” George called out after her, “What are you—” They skidded to a halt in the doorway of their childhood bedroom, to find her collecting her things from atop the dresser.

“You’re not leaving!” Fred almost begged.

She looked up to meet their astonished stares, now openly weeping. “Why don’t you run from me?” she whimpered, “What is it you see?”

Fred answered for them. “We would never!” he breathed, “Christ, we love you, how can you say that?”

“What is it you wonder, when I’m not here?” she wept, pleadingly, “How do you think of me? God, why aren’t you more afraid?”

“Ophelia, _stop_!”

George was upon her before she could protest, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her face into his chest. Her robes slipped from her grip, her mask landing on the ground with a heavy _thunk_. Fred followed, enfolding her between their bodies as though he were afraid she’d somehow slip away. She struggled for a moment, trying to push them off. But George took her by the wrists, pinning them to his chest and trapping them there as they held her. And there she stayed, weeping at the futility of it all. Weeping as the future she’d dreamt of seemed to slip through her fingers and shatter at her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice as fretful as the fingers that clung to their arms. “It’s nothing you’ve done. But I need to leave, before she comes up here and throws me out.”

She tried to step away, but George caught her by the arm. “But we’ve got the wedding!”

“I haven’t been invited,” she reminded him curtly, “You can’t keep bringing me to things I haven’t been invited to.”

“You can sod all that!” Fred exclaimed, “You’re staying for the bloody wedding, O, you’ve got to.”

She sighed, looking between their startled faces. “Thank you for defending me,” she said genuinely, “Thank you for trying. But I can see that your mother doesn’t want me here, and as it’s her home, I won’t presume to linger.”

“Ophelia…”

She reached out to run her hand down each of their cheeks. “I love you,” she said, brow furrowed, “I love you both, more than I’ll ever be able to describe.”

“When will we see you again?”

“I’ll come by the shop, after the wedding,” she reassured them, standing on her tiptoes to kiss them. Back and forth, twice each, before adding a forlorn, “I’m sorry about your ear, Georgie. I really, truly am sorry.”

And with that, she Disapparated into a cloud of black smoke.

Sayre gave her a curious nod as she crossed the shop towards the stairs to her flat. She could sense him absorbing the odd details of her appearance. Makeup smeared, barefoot, carrying an armful of Death Eater’s robes while she sported the well-worn t-shirt.

“Another rough night?” he probed, idly flipping through his book.

Her face twitched angrily. “You’ve no idea, Faolan.”

Alone in the flat, she lovingly folded Fred’s shirt, pressing a kiss to the fabric before placing it in her armoire. And as she stood before the mirror, examining her reflection, all of the hurt and sorrow in her bones began to twist into anger. So, she set about fixing her appearance, as though donning armor. First came the simple black top, with the severe neckline that rose all the way to her jaw, and the high-heeled ankle boots that would allow her to keep the tartan pants.

The twins liked them. She would wear them as often as possible, from now on.

Then, steeling herself before the mirror, she fixed her makeup. It was time for a mission of her own, and she’d be damned if she looked like a weepy little girl. She tugged an evil-looking black jacket from its hanger in the armoire, flinging it over her shoulders and pulling the hood down low. And before she’d have time to talk herself out of it, she Disapparated once more.

She reappeared at the top of an overgrown, rubbish-strewn bank, on the outskirts of Cokeworth. An immense chimney, relic of a disused mill, reared up in the distance, shadowy and ominous. She strode purposefully across the rise and into the town, where a line of old railings separated the river from a narrow, cobbled street.

Her footsteps echoed on the stones as she passed lines of boarded and broken windows, until she reached the very last house on Spinner’s End. A dim light glimmered through the curtains of a downstairs room. Heart hammering in her chest, she gave herself no time to hesitate. With a violent, strong-armed wave of her wand, she blasted the door open.

She stepped directly into a tiny sitting room, which had the feeling of a dark, padded cell. The walls were completely covered in books, most of them bound in old black or brown leather. And there, standing alone in a pool of dim light cast by a candle-filled lantern hanging from the ceiling, was Severus Snape. Wand drawn, glaring down his hooked nose at her.

“You!” she spat, striding over to him with her wand outstretched, “What did you _DO_?”

His face twitched, almost imperceptibly. “I can only imagine what this is about,” he sneered, “Please, Madame Lestrange. _Illuminate_ me.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” she nearly shouted, pressing the tip of her want into his throat, “ _George Weasley_!”

He seemed entirely unfazed. “Is that who it was?”

Her anger had reached its boiling point. “You’re a monster,” she snarled, “You did it just to spite me, you—”

She moved to cast, but he expertly disarmed her, catching it as it spun through the air. He held it aloft, as if to taunt her.

His voice was low and vitriolic as he brandished the pair of wands towards her and commanded, “Sit. _Down_.”

Reluctantly, she backed into a nearby, threadbare armchair. “Of all the people that were there last night,” she glowered up at him, “You had to mutilate the man I love. What an alarming coincidence.”

“ _Man_?” he taunted, towering over her, “Is it _man_ , Ophelia? _Singular_?”

She suddenly had the strangest recollection of the night she was given the Dark Mark. But she held fast, glaring at him with more open fury than she’d ever shown him before. “You did it,” she spat, “ _Intentionally_.”

“Whether I did or did not is inconsequential,” he parried, “The boy is alive, as is Harry Potter.” Every word he spoke was deliberate, emphatic. Dark.

“I could kill you for this.”

He lifted an eyebrow, brandishing her wand mockingly. “Could you?”

_God dammit_ , she realized, _I left my blade at Sayre’s_.

She tried to snatch her wand away, but he yanked it out of reach, clicking his tongue in disapproval. He turned away from her, then, stepping over to one of his bookcases. His fingers traced along the leather-bound spines with a kind of quiet, focused malice. It was a needless display of power, turning his back like that. A reminder of how little a threat she truly posed to him.

In a voice no more than a whisper, he commanded, “You will never. Come here. Again. You will never break down my door again, and you will never raise your wand to me again. No matter _how_ many of your ugly little red-headed boys I see fit to curse. Is that clear?”

“Give me my wand back.”

He rounded on her. “Is. That. Clear?”

After a long, tense silence, she gave him a curt nod. He threw her wand to the floor in front of her, and she scrambled to pick it up, raising it towards him once more.

She knew she should just concede. Take her wand and go. Survive. But the anger was still there, burning behind her eyes. Searing, unavoidable. She wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt George. Her expression hardened, and she whispered, “I’m going to do it, you know. I’m going to keep them alive, like you couldn’t keep your Lily.”

Snape visibly bristled, tightening his grip on his wand.

“When this war is over, I’ll have a life with them. A beautiful, happy life. _Love_ , Severus,” she almost mocked, “Do you understand? I’m going to succeed where you failed.”

His voice came on a shaking whisper. “Get. Out.”

It was the most chilling thing she’d ever heard from him. Cautiously, she backed out of the front door. With a wave of his wand, he slammed it in her face. And with that, she began the long trek back to the edge of town. A moment before she Disapparated, the Dark Mark began to burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in this story is so good at stuff


	7. Pinned and Mounted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Ophelia's Worst Day Ever, Part 2

When she materialized on the front drive of Malfoy Manor, Wormtail was waiting for her.

“What is it?” she asked pointedly, “What’s going on?”

He dropped into a deep, mocking bow. “The Dark Lord requests an audience with your Highness,” he sneered.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Without another word, she pushed her way past him, and made for the house.

The sitting room was uncharacteristically empty. It was safe to assume her family was up at the Château, and she knew where Snape was. But where the rest of them were, she couldn’t begin to imagine. It was with great apprehension that she pushed open the heavy, double-doors to the dining room, genuinely unsure of what she was to encounter. Maybe the snake was waiting to spring on her. Maybe Voldemort would strike her dead, the moment she stepped inside.

Alas, when she opened the doors, there was only the Dark Lord. He sat alone at the head of the table, idly twirling Lucius’ wand between his skeletal fingers. Somehow, it was more terrifying than any of the things she’d been bracing for.

She strode across the room towards him, falling to one knee beside his chair and bowing her head. “My Lord.”

“Ophelia,” he began, as the doors slammed shut, “Beautiful girl. How has this happened?”

She knew to keep her eyes down. “My Lord?”

He spoke each word with cruel deliberation. “Where is Harry Potter?”

She winced preemptively. “I don’t know, My Lord.”

“ _Crucio_!”

She screamed. The curse sent a volley of white-hot knives through her skin, boring their way inward. Her body seized, and then she fell hard to the parquet floor. After a few seconds, he released her.

Voldemort shook his head in bitter disapproval. “A disappointing answer.” He rose to his feet, wand still pointed down at her as he began to pace slow circles around her. “Tell me, child, where did you run off to, last night?”

She tried to push herself back up into a seated position, but her entire body was aching. “I was searching, My Lord!” she quavered, “All night, I searched!”

“Did you?” he sneered, in that mocking tone he seemed to reserve only for Lucius Malfoy, “And what did you find?”

“Only the Weasley boys, My Lord!”

“ _Your_ boys, Ophelia, _your_ boys!”

“ _My_ boys!” she winced, “They tell me the Order has abandoned the old headquarters, and moved Potter to another safehouse!”

“You told me that already, girl,” he reminded her, voice beginning to rise in anger again, “Getting our lies mixed up, are we?”

“No!” she begged, reaching out for the hem of his robes. “Never lies, my Lord!”

He pointed his wand at her. “Then where is the safehouse?”

Her mind was racing. “It’s not the home of his Muggle family, it’s not the Tonks home, and I _know_ it can’t be—”

“ _Where is it, girl_?”

“I don’t know!”

“ _Crucio_!”

She wailed again, hands balling into white-knuckle fists around his robes as she writhed on the floor. This time, it lasted much longer.

“Whatever you’re doing to _your boys_ mustn’t be enough, wouldn’t you agree?” he taunted, “ _Crucio_!”

Blackness was beginning to encroach on the edges of her vision, red and white lights popping before her eyes.

He kicked her away from him, across the floor. “If you can’t get them to tell you a simple thing like this, perhaps you’re no use to me at all! _CRUCIO_!”

Her limbs shook violently, her back jerking into an extreme arch. Every muscle in her body was tight, she could feel her voice beginning to let go. He was delving into her mind, raking through her memories with a series of random, erratic stabs. Like jamming a rusty blade into a tree trunk, over and over and over. She couldn’t predict where he’d aim next, how hard he’d push. Her eyes rolled back and fluttered, and finally fell shut, the heels of her boots scraping and clattering against the floor as she kicked and spasmed.

And then, all at once, it stopped.

She could’ve cried out in relief, but the sound would not come. Her vision was fixed on a point on the ceiling, high above, her body twitching with unpredictable aftershocks. The only sound she could make was a strangled whimper.

Voldemort sank to his knees beside her, leaning in so close that his lips nearly brushed her ear. “I need you to be _better_ ,” he hissed, skeletal fingers tracing icy lines down her cheeks, over and over again.

“Y- _yes_ , my Lord,” she finally managed.

All at once, she began seeing flashes of Fred and George. Waking up wrapped between them on Christmas morning. Dancing through the flat in the orange glow of the setting sun. Lying draped across their laps, naked and content.

“Ohh, you poor little thing,” he almost mocked, “You’ve grown so fond of them, haven’t you?”

She didn’t answer, didn’t breathe.

His hand moved to her jaw, his vicelike grip gradually tightening as he hissed, “Serve me well, and I may even let you keep them.”

Ophelia blinked hard, panic radiating out from some guarded place, deep in her chest.

“Under the _Imperius_ curse, of course,” he mused aloud, “You could drag them along behind you on a chain.”

“T-thank you, my Lord. Your generosity is— is so unde— deserved.”

“Indeed,” he snapped, casting her roughly aside.

Still reeling, Ophelia began to make a weak effort to sit back up.

“Fly back to your castle, now, little raven,” Voldemort commanded, “Fly away and wait. I’m sure your father will want a word with you.”

It was afternoon by the time Ophelia was able to drag herself back to Château Lestrange. She wasn’t sure what brought her there, why she didn’t just go back to Sayre’s. Maybe she needed more sanctuary than that. Maybe there was a part of her that, for once, just couldn’t bear to be alone.

She limped weakly through the front doors, grateful not to be met by her father. There was no fight left in her. Not for him, not now. She wandered aimlessly through the foyer, through the grand salon, back towards the gardens. It was a grey, overcast day, but at least it was dry. She stepped out into the courtyard, and lifted her face to the low wind. It brought none of the absolution she’d so craved.

“ _Ophélie_.”

It was Rodolphus. He was draped limply over one of the _salon_ chairs, which he seemed to have dragged outside. He was as weak as she’d ever seen him, gazing up at her through tired, sunken eyes, dark-ringed with pain and worry. He beckoned to her, and she went to him without argument.

“My girl,” he breathed, as she knelt down beside him, “ _Tu ressembles la façon dont je me sens_.”

“What happened?” she implored, taking his hand in hers.

He exhaled a mirthless chuckle, head rolling off to the side. “Andromeda’s traitor brat hexed me from my broom.”

Though she crooned apologies and sympathy, Ophelia made a mental note to congratulate her cousin on her expert work, next time she saw her. The dissonance was nauseating.

“I’ll be alright,” he reassured her, “It’s you I’m worried about. And I suspect…” he sighed deeply, “I suspect, by the state of you, that you bore the brunt of the Dark Lord’s wrath. For our failing last night.”

She nodded in silent confirmation, lips pressed tightly together.

“Oh, my child,” he murmured, placing a hand on her cheek. There was genuine compassion to be seen in his eyes; for once plain and unguarded.

“I can take it,” she said, “I’m made of harder stuff than that.”

He smiled proudly, then, sinking deeper into his chair. “Where did you run off to, last night?”

She sighed deeply, settling in beside him and leaning her temple down on his knee. “I tried to find where they’d taken the boy. And then, when my leads ran out, I… I’ve got a place in the city.” It was a reluctant admission, and it tugged uncomfortably at her worry. _Should I have told him that?_

But he placed a hand on her shoulder, and breathed, “I know. Your father told me.”

“Are you angry as well, then?”

“No.”

She craned her neck to look up at him, and the corner of his mouth twitched with a smile.

“Your father is a soldier,” he explained, “One of the finest this world has ever seen. But to explain the ways and means of spies to a soldier is an exercise in futility. You’d drive yourself mad, trying to make him understand.”

Her brow gathered, eyes traveling across his face, trying to make sense of what he was saying to her.

“But I understand,” he continued, “Just as I understood your mother.”

Ophelia quickly turned away, resting her head down on his knee once more. All at once, her heart was pounding.

“I’m sorry,” he quickly added, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” she said, “It’s alright. You… You never talk about her.”

“And I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to.”

It was a long time before either of them spoke again. And what Ophelia said next surprised even her.

“I’m scared, Rodolphus.”

His hand moved to her cheek, then, brushing her hair back from her face. “What has been asked of you is a frightening thing. And you’ve come so far, so quickly. You’d have to be mad, not to feel fear.”

She closed her eyes, bracing against the threat of tears. But it seemed an inevitable thing. And, just as she opened her mouth to speak, her father stormed out into the garden.

“ _Où étiez-vous_?” he demanded, “We were up all night, waiting for you!”

“She was working!” Rodolphus snapped, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. Despite herself, Ophelia couldn’t help but shrink into his embrace.

“ _C’est le foutaise_!” her father shouted, drawing his wand.

“Stop,” Rodolphus snapped, and in an instant, he had drawn his own wand. “Turn around. And walk away.”

“ _Je ne veux pas! Elle—"_

“I said stop!” Rodolphus repeated, “I may be weak, _mon frère,_ but I could still kill you! _Tu t'en vas_!”

Rabastan roared in frustration, throwing his head back and baring his teeth. And with that, he stormed away. After a moment, a door slammed somewhere in the castle.

“I wish you were my father,” Ophelia murmured, burying her face into her uncle’s knee. As though it might hide the admission. As though it may erase the truth. “You _should’ve_ been my father. Not him.”

“Yes,” Rodolphus breathed, “I agree.”


	8. Another Way of Caring

It was the night before Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and Fred and George were completely miserable. Typically, at a time like this, the two of them would be chattering away endlessly with one another, driving everyone else mad with some prank or stunt or another. But not tonight. Not now. Instead, they were slumped against each other on the couch at the Burrow, making a big show of _not_ helping everyone else with last-minute preparations. Silent, and uncharacteristically glum.

Earlier that day, George had finally voiced to his twin that thing they’d both been so preoccupied by: they weren’t identical, anymore.

After two decades of careful control, of whispers under the covers at night, making sure they were keeping pace with each other, making sure they were staying the same, it had all been ruined. They were different, now, and they would be for the rest of their lives. It wasn’t fair. It broke their heart. And no one would ever, ever understand why. Not even Ophelia.

“William,” Fleur scolded, nodding curtly towards the pair in the other room.

Bill heaved a deep sigh, hands raised in surrender. “Alright,” he conceded, rising to his feet, “Alright.”

He made his way wearily towards the couch, motioning for the twins to make space for him between them. Fred crossed his arms, turning away like a petulant child, but George obliged, reluctantly lifting his head from his brother’s shoulder and sliding over.

“Listen,” he began, looking between them, “I need you two to lighten up. You’re putting Fleur off.”

George scoffed, rolling his eyes, and Fred mumbled something under his breath. The only words he caught were ‘ _double-standard_.’

Bill put a finger to his ear, leaning closer to his brother. “Sorry, Freddie, I think I missed that.”

“I _said_ ,” he repeated, far louder than was appropriate, given his proximity to Bill’s ear, “That’s a fine double-standard!”

“Yeah,” George agreed, “Good to know this family’s capable of being polite to _someone’s_ French Princess.”

“ _Je peux t'entendre_!” Fleur suddenly shouted, craning her neck to look in on them from the kitchen, “ _Vous petit_ —”

George boldly interrupted, “ _N’importe quoi_!” Something he’d picked up from O. He didn’t know the precise translation, but he knew it was rude, dismissive, and meant that he wanted Fleur to nose out.

Though he hadn’t the faintest idea what his brother had said, Fred cast him a sidelong glance, smirking proudly.

Fleur gasped, looking between the trio. “ _Où avez-vous appris ça?_ _Je le jure_ —” 

Bill held up a hand. “Darling, please.”

With a haughty sneer, and a flip of her long, blonde hair, she disappeared around the corner again.

“Could you _please_ , just… _Not_ do things like that?” Bill all but begged, “Please. For _me_.”

The twins exchanged unimpressed glances.

“30 hours, that’s all I ask!”

“Bloody double-standard,” Fred grumbled.

Bill sighed, throwing an arm over his brothers’ shoulders, and yanking them both close. “How about this?” he laughed wearily, “I promise that the day you both marry your French Princess, at the same time, I’ll make sure that no one is throwing a moody, and everyone is proper nice to her. Alright?”

The twins wriggled away from their big brother, arms still crossed indignantly.

Bill groaned, frustration beginning to mount. “What? What do you want? What can I do?”

“Admit that mum was bang out of order—”

“—and take our bloody side, for once.”

“Nobody ‘round here _ever_ does.”

“Yeah,” he tiredly conceded, “Mum was bang out of order. But you two didn’t exactly make it easy on her, did you?”

They grumbled indistinct denial.

“And yeah, we all knew, all along, the whole time. Because O may be a bloody good spy, but you two certainly aren’t. But there was a time and a place and a _way_ that conversation needed to happen, and that wasn’t it.”

Before they could respond, they heard a shriek of surprise from the kitchen. Not a moment later, a pair of shimmering silver dogs came leaping through the air towards them. A coyote, and a hyena.

A familiar voice sounded as they circled around the twins, passing the message back and forth between the two Patronuses.

“ _It’s about to begin_ ,” the coyote warned.

“ _Tomorrow,_ ” the hyena continued, _“Maybe two days from now, at the latest_.”

_“The Ministry is poised to fall.”_

_“Pack a bag. Fortify the shop.”_

_“Warn your family.”_

_“Be ready to run at a moment’s notice, and get them ready, too.”_

The twins watched the dogs run in circles around them, trailing wisps of silver in their wake.

_“Stay alive.”_

_“Whatever happens, you just stay alive.”_

_“I’ll find you. No matter the cost.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you both.”_

And then, as quickly as they had come, the Patronuses were gone. The twins looked to each other, and Fred could see the fear in his brother’s eyes. It was the same fear he’d heard in George’s voice, the last time Ophelia left them at the shop, that cold, quiet morning. It was the same fear that had been steadily mounting in his own chest for months.

It was then that they noticed the crowd that had gathered in the kitchen doorway. Fleur, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Ron. Their father. And their mother, standing right in the middle: pale-faced and glassy-eyed.


	9. Unsound Methods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, I was just re-visiting some early, early portions of this story, to double-check continuity with upcoming chapters, and holy shit I'd forgotten what an annoying "Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way" Ophelia was as a child. With her outfits and shit, fuck. I meant for her to be like that, since that's sort of the Lestrange/ Malfoy way of life, and she felt like she had a lot to prove to *everyone* about it. But Jesus Christ, she was such an annoying little tryhard for a while. It's like she *wanted* to be a Mary Sue, but was so bad at stuff (rude to everyone for no reason, not actually fun to be around in any way, too rich to function, etc.) that she couldn't even pull that off. Thank god the twins chilled her out a little. They're the real MVPs for hanging tough and getting THAT shit to stop. Power of superficial physical attractiveness, I guess.
> 
> Anyway. Back to Espresso Depresso.

Ophelia never visited the twins at the shop again. Three days after her visit to Cokeworth, the world abruptly ended. The Ministry had been overrun. Rufus Scrimgeour was dead. And a taboo had been placed on the Dark Lord’s name, in an attempt to hunt down the members of the Order of the Phoenix. She’d been given a charm in the shape of a locket. When it burned, she was meant to Disapparate on the spot. It would take her where she needed to go, and she was meant to capture or kill whomever she found there. Her friends.

It happened for the first time on the night of Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Ophelia, Dolohov, and Rowle apparated to a Muggle coffee shop on Tottenham Court Road, only to find Ron, Hermione, and Harry Potter himself. Ophelia’s heart plummeted at the sight. Something must have gone horribly, horribly wrong.

The trio were seated at a table, with their backs turned to the wide, glass storefront. A grievous error, but clearly, far from the first they’d made that night. The Death Eaters entered the shop silently, Dolohov and Rowle drawing their wands. Ophelia followed suit as they approached, heart hammering faster and faster with each step she took towards them. She knew what she needed to do. And without a moment to spare, she acted.

With a wordless, strong-armed wave of her wand, she sent Dolohov flying across the shop, where he crashed into a shelf of flatware.

Rowle was furious, confused. “What the _hell_ are you doing, Lestrange?”

At the sudden commotion, Harry and Ron leapt to their feet, and Hermione leapt into action.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!”

Rowle froze, and fell backwards like a plank of wood, landing hard on the tile.

“Blimey, Ophelia!” Ron sputtered, “Thanks for that!”

“What happened?” she quickly demanded of them, “What are you doing here?”

“The Death Eaters attacked the wedding,” Ron explained, a tone of horror in his voice, “We had to get out of there.”

“Luckily Hermione was prepared,” Harry added.

Her first thought was of the twins. But it would have to wait. With a wave of her wand, Ophelia closed the storefront’s blinds.

“We haven’t got much time.”

She strode over to the stunned Dolohov. He was beginning to stir. She snatched his wand from his hand, and with another silent wave of her wand, he was petrified.

“How did you find us?” Harry asked, stepping up beside her to examine the fallen Death Eater.

“The Dark Lord has put a taboo on his own name.”

Ron looked bewildered. “A what?”

“He believes that the only people arrogant enough to say his name aloud are the members of the Order,” she explained, holding her locket up for them to see. “Say the name, and the Death Eaters will hear it, and Apparate right to you.”

“How?” Hermione gasped, incredulous, “To cast a spell with that kind of _influence_ —”

“I don’t know how he did it,” Ophelia dismissed, shaking her head, “But it doesn’t matter. It’s done. Do _not_ say the name.”

“Alright,” Harry nodded hurriedly, “Thanks.”

“I can’t save you like this again,” Ophelia impressed, looking sternly between their shocked faces, “I wish I could, but I can’t. And even now, steps are going to have to be taken.”

Ron looked her up and down suspiciously. “What do you mean, _steps_?”

Ophelia walked out into the middle of the room again, already gritting her teeth against what she knew had to be done. “You’re going to have to follow my instructions exactly as I give them, do you understand? You’ve made a lot of mistakes tonight, and we can’t afford to make any more.”

Ron and Hermione nodded, but Harry argued. “We’ve done the best we know how, Ophelia, it’s not like—”

“And that’s why I’m teaching you _better_. So that something like this doesn’t happen again. First, take this—” She tossed Harry Dolohov’s wand. “Do whatever you want with it. Snap it in half for all I care. But it’ll look suspicious if they find that in my hand.”

Harry tossed it over towards Dolohov, and it clattered to the rubble beside him.

“Now, you’re going to have to stun me,” she explained, “I mean really, really stun me.”

“What? No!” Harry argued, “We’re not going to—”

“We have to,” Hermione corroborated sadly, “Otherwise they’ll know she helped us.”

“Exactly. This is tradecraft, Harry,” she impressed, “This sort of thing is all I do. You’ll stun me, and then Obliviate the other two. They’ve seen and heard too much.”

“What about you?” Harry asked, “Won’t Vol—”

“ _STOP_ , Harry!” she shouted, holding up both hands, “God dammit, what did I _just_ tell you?” It was a wonder to her that he’d managed to survive so long.

“Sorry!” She could hear frustration mounting in his voice.

A faint, stifled noise rose from near their feet. They looked down at Rowle, and Ophelia could only imagine the litany of furious curses behind his vacant eyes.

“Yeah, that’s right, you stupid bastard,” Ron spat, delivering a hard kick to his shin, “You’re being double-crossed, you hear that?”

“Ron, that’s enough,” Hermione scolded softly.

Ophelia shook her head. “I would kill them,” she announced, “Honestly, I would. But the Dark Lord knows that nobody in the Order would kill.”

Hermione’s face darkened. “You don’t mean that, Ophelia.”

“No,” Harry said, oddly, “I reckon she does, Hermione.”

Ophelia shook her head, steeling herself. “After you erase their memories, you’ll need to Disapparate as fast as possible. I’ll give you half a minute, and then I’ll have no choice but to call the other Death Eaters. Do you have someplace you can go?”

“Yes,” Hermione said confidently, finally latching back onto something familiar, “We’ll—”

Ophelia held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. It’ll be cleaner if I don’t know.”

“Right,” Hermione shook her head, “Right, of course.”

“Alright,” she announced, straightening up, “Go on, then. Get it over with.”

Harry raised his wand, shifting it tentatively in his hand. “Are you sure?”

She groaned, frustration beginning to mount, “I spend all my time with Fred and George, don’t I? I can bloody well take a stun!” Their names seem to stick like a lump in her throat. She shouldn’t have said them aloud, but the damage had been done. She paused, pressing her eyes shut. The trio could sense the question before she asked it. “Sod it all, speaking of which—”

Hermione was the first to answer. “I don’t know what happened to them, Ophelia, I’m so sorry. It all just happened so fast, and we had to leave, for Harry’s sake, so—”

She waved her off, trying to tamp down the gnawing fear. “It’s alright. I— I’ll find them.” It was as much for her own reassurance as it was for theirs.

“Thanks.” To her surprise, it came from Ron. He stepped forward, awkwardly placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve always done right by them, you know. No matter what mum might say about it.”

She tried to force a smile, quietly amused by this sweet, earnest act. “Thank you, Ronald.”

“But…” he stepped back, drawing his wand, “I still can’t stand thinking about what it is the three of you get up to and on what surfaces, so… _Expulso_!”

She was completely unprepared for it. The shock of blue light blasted her backwards, against the concrete wall of the shop. All of the air was forced from her lungs, and she could feel the wall give way behind her. Along with a few of her ribs. Rubble cascaded down around her, and she slumped to the ground in a gasping heap.

“You… You bastard,” she choked out, rolling onto her back. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but smile. She could taste blood, but when she tried to spit it out, she only succeeded in sending it pouring thickly down her own chin. And she was learning that the metal corset of her Death Eaters robes was, perhaps, the _least_ ideal thing to wear with broken ribs.

“Yeah, well,” Ron smirked, pocketing his wand, “That’s what you get, I reckon.”

Harry and Hermione each went to one of the fallen Death Eaters, and Ophelia watched as their memories of the last five minutes were blasted into oblivion.

“I’ve gotta hand it to you, O,” Ron remarked, “You’re _hard_. Never seen you in action before, and now that I have, you’re a little bloody frightening. Do my brothers know what they’ve signed up for?”

The corner of her mouth twitched with a weak smile. “Better than you do, darling.”

Harry and Hermione returned to stand beside the self-satisfied Ron.

“Good luck,” she gasped quietly, clutching at her ribs.

“Thanks,” Harry said genuinely, clasping hands with Ron and Hermione, “You too.”

With a resounding _CRACK_ , they were gone.

Ophelia closed her eyes, leaning into the pain. She let it flood over her, like a wildfire. For a moment, she simply lay in silence and let the fear take over. The twins were dead, she knew it. Fred and George were gone, they hadn’t made it out of the wedding. She’d never see them again, never hold their hands, never touch their hair. She was entirely alone. All the she had been fighting for had been stolen away in the blink of an eye. No more Fred and George, no more fire whiskey, no more homemade breakfast or long, lazy summer nights. They were the only people she’d ever truly loved, all her life, and they were—

 _NO_. No, she told herself, they’re smarter than that. They made it out alive. They’d have fought their way out, if they had to. They’re so brave, and so strong. And you know what you have to do, now, do it. Be strong, like them. Fight. She reconstructed the barrier in her mind, dividing it out just so. _Remember who you are, and set her aside. You are who you’re meant to be._

Mustering all the strength she had left, she silently released the spell on Dolohov.

“Thorfinn?” she cried, voice breaking perfectly. “Antonin?”

They made pained sounds of acknowledgement.

“What…?” she begged weakly, “What happened? What are we doing here? How…?”

“Someone’s gotten the drop on us, I reckon,” Rowle theorized, struggling to his feet, “I’m damn sure someone’s just used a memory charm on me.

“Has to be,” Dolohov corroborated, rubbing at his temples and stepping up beside his companion. “Fucking hell, Lestrange, what’s happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” she coughed, and the sound of her own weak voice frightened her a little, “We need to call him! Call the Dark Lord!”

“Rabastan is going to see us killed for this,” Rowle furtively whispered, “Or worse.”

“Oh, fuck you, Thorfinn,” she snarled, baring her bloodstained teeth, “You’ll do as I say. Call the Dark Lord.”

“Don’t do it,” Dolohov cautioned, “Not until we have something to tell him.”

“Fuck you, too,” she spat, “I’d do it myself, but my ribs are shattered and I don’t think I can reach. _Call him,_ or I’ll kill you both myself, and tell him Potter did it _._ I’m still holding my wand _._ ”

After a moment of hesitation, Dolohov rolled up his sleeve, and pressed a finger to the tattoo writhing on his forearm. Rowle cast a few spells in her direction, and the pain abated slightly. Enough for her to stand, at least.

Not a moment later, Voldemort materialized before them. He had one skeletal hand clasped around the wrist of Draco Malfoy. He flung the boy away in disgust, rounding on his Death Eaters.

“Odd, I think,” he hissed, taking in the scene, “That you would dare summon me without first capturing Harry Potter.”

“He was here, my Lord,” Rowle was quick to justify, “We followed the taboo.”

“Oh?” he sneered, looking around in mock surprise, “And where is he, now?”

“We don’t know,” Dolohov answered, “We think someone’s used a Memory Charm on us.”

“You’re awfully quiet over there, Madame Lestrange,” Voldemort remarked, “Nothing to add?”

Dolohov answered for her. “Whoever was here hurt her quite badly, my Lord. Broken ribs, memory gone.”

Voldemort tutted in disapproval, pacing around the shop, kicking idly at the detritus that littered the floor. “Interesting how it went from ‘ _Harry Potter’_ to ‘ _someone’_ to ‘ _whoever was here_.’”

The three Death Eaters exchanged worried glances.

“Do you know the best way to break a Memory Charm?” he asked.

Ophelia cringed back, knowing all too well what was coming.

“Pain.”

Her stomach dropped, bottom lip beginning to quiver in protest.

“Draco?” Voldemort beckoned, and he scurried over, head bowed in fear. “Hurt them.”

Ophelia’s eyes flitted up to meet her cousin’s, wide and imploring. _Don’t you dare,_ she silently begged, watching in impotent fear as he raised his wand, _don’t you dare, don’t you—_

“ _Crucio_!”

She winced preemptively, but the pain didn’t come. Dolohov. He’d gone for Dolohov first, and he was writhing on the ground, screaming. Then came Rowle, cascading to the floor beside him, their blood-curdling shrieks echoing off the tile.

He was doing well, she thought. For a first-timer.

Back and forth between them, back and forth. Voldemort stood behind Draco, all the while maintaining a low, steady command: “Keep going. Keep going. _Keep going_.”

Ophelia could but watch and wait, cradling her broken ribs.

It was a small eternity before Draco turned to her. He raised his wand, visibly shaking. Hesitant, as he’d been the night she’d killed Charity Burbage.

The night she’d killed Charity Burbage _for him._

She raised her wand, too. “Don’t,” she commanded.

“ _Do it_.”

He swallowed hard. “ _Cruc_ —"

“I said _don’t_!” With a quick cant of her wrist, Ophelia send his wand spinning from his hand. And then, in the panic and confusion, did to him what he’d meant to do to her.

Draco screamed. He fell, 600-Galleon suit picking up dust and debris from the floor. Voldemort laughed, a sound like a winter wind through bare trees, clapping his hands appreciatively.

“I told you not to _do_ that!” she shouted down at her cousin, the pain in her ribs spiking dangerously with the effort.

“That’s my beautiful girl,” Voldemort praised, “Well done, indeed! You’ve all the viciousness of your father in you.”

Draco was lying at her feet, gasping and stunned. But she’d gone easy on him. And she had far greater concerns to attend to.

“I’ll check the regular hideouts,” she announced, adding a quick, “By your leave, of course, my Lord.”

He turned to the fallen Draco, giving her a dismissive sort of wave. “Go on, then. Get out of my sight.”

“Yes, my Lord.” She closed her eyes, and Disapparated. Just as Voldemort raised his wand to her cousin.

The first place she went was 93 Diagon Alley. She had tried to Apparate inside, but instead, found herself standing on the front steps. The dark street was, mercifully, empty. More than a little confused, she took a few shaking steps back, and saw that all of the windows had been boarded up. Even the ones in the flat.

“Hey!” she shouted upwards, nearly doubling over for the pain it caused her. “ _Fuck_. HEY!”

No answer. She was beginning to panic. _Did I miss them? Or didn’t they make it back here at all?_

With one arm wrapped over her shattered ribs, she stepped back up to the door, and began pounding on it with a closed fist.

“Are you in there?” she called out, “It’s me!”

Still no answer.

“Fred and George Weasley!” she screamed, pounding harder. Her vision was beginning to blur with hot, fearful tears. “You come out here, this instant!”

 _It can’t be true, it just can’t. Just because they’re not here, it doesn’t mean they’re dead_.

“You come out here right now!” she sobbed, knowing full well they weren’t inside. “Come out here! Come out here! _Come out here_!”

She was pounding on the door with both hands, then, ribs grinding against one another, popping in and out of that damned metal corset. But the agony of it only fueled her fear and panic. Strangely, she thought of the story Sirius had told her, about the man in Azkaban.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing, there? Who— Oh my god.”

Ophelia whipped around to see Florian Fortescue standing in the door of his own shop. He was watching her with wide, glassy eyes. Terrified.

“Oh my god,” he repeated, fumbling for his wand.

A million thoughts ran through her head at once. _Fuck, you’re not wearing your mask, he’s seen your face. It’s too late, now. No, don’t hurt him! Maybe he knows where the twins went. No! Just make it out of here alive. He doesn’t know why you’re here. Your cover’s not blown. Fuck, why aren’t you wearing your mask, you stupid, stupid, girl? What good is it, hanging from your hip?_

He raised his wand towards her, but she reacted well.

“ _Expelliarimus_!” she shouted, sending it ricocheting from his hand. “I’m not here for you!”

He watched in terror as she donned her mask, tugging the hood of her robes up over her head. And then she raised her wand skyward, and cried, “ _Morsmordre_!”

Impulsive, but smart. A nice touch. The Dark Lord would be pleased.

With one final look at Florian Fortescue, she Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ickle Ronnykins, paying attention during D.A. meetings!


	10. Beside You in Time

It was a bright, moonlit night, when Ophelia Apparated onto the beach outside of Shell Cottage.

She could hear Fleur inside as she approached. “Oh, Bill, _c’est ma sœur, c’est_ Ophelia.” And then, after a beat, she said, “No, it’s not a good night, I ought to tell her to come back another time.”

A quick, upward glance confirmed her suspicion: the moon was full. She stopped in her tracks. Perhaps tonight wasn’t a good night, after all.

But then Bill spoke up. “Nah, it’s alright. Who knows when she’ll be able to get back, again?”

“Perhaps you should go upstairs, _mon cœur_.”

“Fleur,” he scoffed, and with that, the front door swung open to greet her. “Oi!” he called out, “Get in here, before someone sees you!”

Ophelia jogged through the sand towards him, straight into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her like a vise, lifting her up off the ground and squeezing hard.

Perhaps a little too hard. And, perhaps… Perhaps for a little too long, fingernails digging into the back of her neck. And hadn’t his teeth looked a bit different, when he’d smiled at her?

Fleur was quick to interrupt, ushering them both inside. “William, _ça suffit pour l'instant_!” When the door had been securely shut behind them, she threw her own arms around Ophelia. “ _Ma sœur_ , where have you been? We’ve been so worried!”

“ _Je sais_ ,” she breathed, returning the embrace in earnest, “ _Je sais, et je suis désolé_! I promise I’ll try and come by more often! How have you been?”

“We’re alright,” Fleur replied, “Much better, now that we’ve seen you.”

Bill, meanwhile, was lingering by the small window in the door, gazing vacantly up at the sky.

“ _Mon cœur_ ,” Fleur nudged.

He blinked at the pair in mild surprise. “Eh?”

“Perhaps you ought to go upstairs,” she pressed.

He rolled his eyes, crossing the room to flop down at the kitchen table. In his mannerisms, Ophelia could see only Fred and George, and that was hard. Instead, she turned her attention to the slab of raw meat bleeding onto the plate in front of him. There were no utensils on the table.

No, perhaps it would be best not to think about that, either.

“I can come back another night,” she offered quietly.

Bill barked out a laugh. “I’m not gonna eat you, sweetheart. Doesn’t make a difference which way the planets are pointing.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted.

“And before you get to apologizing again, _don’t_. It wasn’t your fault.”

Ophelia nodded weakly. “Alright.”

“Come on, then,” Bill prodded, gesturing to the chair across from him, "What news?"

“Raids,” she replied, as she and Fleur joined him at the table, “That’s all, just more raids. More people put under the _Imperius_ Curse each day, more sent to Azkaban.”

“Anyone we know?”

She shook her head bitterly. “Everyone we know.” At the sight of their faces, she quickly corrected. “None of your family. Not Harry or Hermione, either, or the Lovegoods.

“Oh!” Fleur suddenly perked up, “Bill, _Je ne pense pas qu'elle le sache_!”

She looked between them in surprise. “Wait, you don’t think I know _what_?”

“Yeah, hey,” Bill remarked, “What night is it? Thursday? Hell, they’ll be on tomorrow!”

“Hey!” Ophelia pressed, “What don’t I know?”

The following night, in the privacy of her flat above Sayer’s, Ophelia switched on the radio that Bill and Fleur had given her. She tapped it twice with her wand, and murmured, “ _Phoenix_.”

It was a long time before she heard anything recognizable. So long, in fact, that she nearly gave up. It reminded her of the night that Lee had brought the television over to number 93. Through the crackling and the static, a familiar voice began to sound.

“Good evening, all!”

Lee Jordan himself. Ophelia clapped a hand over her mouth. Bill and Fleur had been right.

“We apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which is due to a number of house-calls in our area by those _charming_ Death Eaters.”

It made her stomach turn with worry. She’d been on some of those raids. She’d done all she could to help Dean, and he’d gotten away safely. But there were so many more she hadn’t been able to reach in time.

“But now, we're back!” he continued, “So, let's move to news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We'd like to refer to him as ‘Chief Death Eater’. And here to give us his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating about him, I'd like to introduce our new correspondent, Rodent!”

And then, off mic, she heard him. “ _I'm not being Rodent! I told you, I want to be Rapier!_ ” She nearly screamed in relief, jumping to her feet.

“ _Freddie_!” Her raven screeched, fluttering over to the tabletop. He began scraping his beak along the corners of the radio, pecking at the speaker. “ _Freddie! Freddie_!”

She shushed him insistently, desperate to hear every word.

Lee folded instantly. “Oh alright, Rapier! Could you tell our listeners the various stories you've heard about the Chief Death Eater?”

“Yes, I can,” he announced proudly. “As our listeners will know, unless they've taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond, You-Know-Who's strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice climate of panic! Mind you, if all alleged sightings of him are genuine, there must be nineteen You-Know-Whos running around!”

She laughed. The first honest laugh she’d had since the three of them had been jostling for position in front of the mirror, that morning at the Burrow.

“Which suits him of course,” Lee remarked, “The air of mystery creates more terror than actually showing himself.”

“Agreed. So, people, let's try and calm it down a bit, things are bad enough without inventing stuff! For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill you with a single glance from his eyes. That's a Basilisk, listeners! One simple test: check whether the thing that's glaring at you has legs. If it has, it's safe to look.”

Again, she burst into peals of laughter. It was at this point, she realized she had both hands clasped desperately around the radio as it sat on the table.

“Although,” Fred added, “If it really is You-Know-Who, that's still likely to be the last thing you ever do.”

“Well, thank you for that update, Rodent!”

" _Rapier_!”

And then, a second voice sounded, off-mic. “ _Oi! You’re forgetting—Gimme that!_ ”

Mischief was beside himself, hopping back and forth on the tabletop. “ _Orange! Freddie, Orange_!”

She waved him away desperately. “Darling, _hush_!”

“Oh, uh…” Fred mumbled something inaudible, before returning. “Right. It looks like Tentacula has something he’d like to say. Stand by.”

There came a sound like the microphone being passed around, and then she heard him.

“This is Tentacula,” he announced, “And I’ve got a message for anyone listening.”

This time, she did cry out. Her quavering voice tore through the stale air of her flat, a wordless, monosyllabic expression of pure relief. Both of them, warm and alive, and still as wild as ever.

“If anyone happens to run across Hemlock out there, tell her we miss her, and we’re keeping safe.”

_Hemlock_ , she marveled, her vision beginning to swim with tears. Belladonna. How absolutely, wonderfully brilliant.

“Here, here,” Fred chimed in.

“ _And_ ,” George added, “If you can hear us yourself, you spooky thing, know that we love you. Stay alive for us, alright?”

“ _I’m here_!” she cried in heartbroken futility, “I’m right here, darlings, I can hear you!”

“ _We love you_!”

“I love you too!!” she nearly sobbed, clinging to the radio, “Do you hear me? I said love you!”

There was another shuffle for the microphone, and then Lee, feigning tears, whimpered, “Merlin’s beard, you two. How unbelievably _touching_.”

Off-mic, they responded in unison. “ _Get stuffed_!”

She exhaled a monosyllabic laugh, sending tears streaming down her face.

“Alright, alright,” Lee placated them, “It looks like that’s it for today. Don't forget to tune in again listeners, for more stories, tales, updates, and advice. Next week’s password will be _Wulfric_. I repeat, _Wulfric_. In the meantime—”

In unison, “ _Stay safe_!”

“Keep the faith!”

“And support Harry Potter!”

“ _No_!” she cried, watching as the red light on the radio faded out, “No, god, _come back_!”

But it was no use. They were gone. She sat back in her chair, wiping tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket.

“They’re alive,” she said aloud, “They’re alive, and they love you.”

That night, she poured herself a glass of fire-whiskey, silently toasting her lovers before downing the entire glass in a single gulp. Just the way they’d have wanted. And afterwards, she fell asleep wearing the Weird Sisters t-shirt, letting the smell of them fill her head with happy, unpolluted memories.

It wasn’t what she wanted. Her heart ached for more. But it was enough to keep her fighting another day. It was a spark that could ignite her hope once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hemlock is a poisonous plant. Belladonna (her middle name) is also a poisonous plant. Interestingly enough, Tentacula is also a poisonous plant. 
> 
> And Fred is Rodent.


	11. Spooky Action at a Distance

It was a frost-bitten night in Rivington Wood, and Fred sat alone by the small fire outside their tent. They’d found an odd kind of ruin to camp out in; a crumbling castle, long-since reclaimed by nature. But the decaying stone walls did little to keep out the chill. And the fire, it seemed, did even less. A thick, nearly seamless band of stars stretched across the velvet-black sky above, but he paid it no mind. Despite the bone-aching cold, his eyelids were becoming heavy. _It’s amazing what you can get used to,_ he thought madly, _when you’ve got no other choice._

Behind him, the tent flap fluttered, startling him back to attention. He cleared his throat, pressing his fingers into his eyes. “What are you doing?” he croaked, “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t,” George replied, falling heavily beside his twin, “Blimey, ‘s cold out here.” He rubbed his hands up and down his own arms.

“Go back in the tent, Georgie,” he sighed wearily.

“Can’t we make a bigger fire?”

“You know we can’t, mate.”

George groaned. “Can’t sleep, can’t get warm, can’t have a proper fire… No good food… Haven’t had a proper shag in months…”

Fred prodded at the campfire with a stick, sending a spray of bright orange embers skyward. “Quit your whinging.”

“ _Quit your whinging_ ,” he mocked, childishly.

The corner of Fred’s mouth lifted into a half-smile, and he shook his head. “Come on, then, sit with me.”

Grateful for the invitation, George scooted around beside his twin, leaning his back against Fred’s back. They rested their heads beside each other’s, sinking comfortably into this modicum of warmth.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Fred conceded, “This is really horrible.”

“Remember when we were kids?” George prodded, “We went through that whole camping phase, where we’d drag dad’s manky old tent out into the field on summer nights.”

Fred smiled. “Wasted hours trying to make a fire the Muggle way… Tinder and flint…”

“Never worked properly, did it?”

“No.”

“Ron always wanted to join in.”

“Yeah, he did, the git.”

“And now…” George’s words faded to a heavy sigh.

“Yeah.”

“Should’ve saved our energy, I reckon.”

“Too right.”

They were quiet for a long time, leaning against one another beneath the bright, night sky.

“Our hair’s getting well long again,” George remarked, running his fingers through… Someone’s hair. It could’ve been his, or Fred’s, he wasn’t sure.

Fred knew he was just trying to fill the silence. “Yeah, it is. Wish O was here to braid it back, for us.” He knew, the instant he said it, that it was a mistake.

George noticeably perked up. “Where do you think she is?”

It was all he ever wanted to talk about. _Where’s O? Is she safe? Do you reckon she heard Potter Watch?_

“I reckon she’s up at her bloody castle,” Fred replied, and George could hear a hint of bitterness in his tone, “Warm and comfortable, wearing some spooky dress, drinking wine that costs more than the shop, and just _stuffed_ _full_ of posh food and—”

“Augustin Travers.”

It was a tense moment before Fred responded. “Nah.”

“No, you’re right.” George shifted anxiously. “Not… Nah.”

Fred heaved a deep sigh, leaning back against his brother. And then, in a truly bizarre act, broke into his impression of Ophelia. “You needn’t worry after me, my darling,” he reassured, all long, round vowels and clipped consonants, “I’ll survive. It’s _you_ I’m concerned about.”

George laughed softly, shaking his head.

“You’re looking rather knackered, aren’t you?” Fred continued, enjoying himself immensely. “I really think you ought to go to bed, my darling.”

“What, _sleep_ or _bed_?” George teased.

“Oi!” Fred laughed, elbowing at his brother, “With the current state of things, it’ll be sleep or nothing!”

George closed his eyes, letting his head rest against Fred’s “You’re no fun anymore,” he sighed. He could smell the fire lingering in his brother’s hair, and that brought him some strange measure of comfort.

“I love it when she says stuff like ‘ _knackered’_ ,” Fred whispered.

“Yeah,” George smiled, “Me too.”

“Sounds so wrong in her voice, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

After a beat of silence, Fred spoke again. “C’mon, Georgie. Let’s go in.”

“Someone’s gotta keep watch.”

“Sod it,” he shrugged, “As if one of us sitting outside is gonna make any difference when the Snatchers come knocking.”

“Yeah…” George exhaled wearily, “Fair point.”

Fred patted his brother on the shoulder, rising on stiff, creaking knees. “Let’s go in.”

“Will you…” George hesitated, gaze fixed on the dancing flames, “Will you let me do that… That thing…? Lying against your back?”

“Yeah,” Fred conceded, shuffling off towards the tent, “’Course. Now come on. Put that out, and come lie down.”

George drew his wand and pointed it towards the campfire. “ _Aguamenti_.” In an instant, the flames died beneath the stream of water. And, leaving the logs to hiss and steam beneath the freezing night sky, he retreated back towards the tent.

At the same time, 200 miles away, Ophelia Lestrange was seated in her high-backed chair at Malfoy Manor. In her right hand, she clasped one of her long, black cigarettes. In her left, a glass of _Domaine de la Romanée-Conti_. The half-empty bottle sat on the floor beside her chair. She was drunk. But not nearly drunk enough.

Draco’s voice sounded from behind her. “What are you doing here?”

“Avoiding my father and terrifying yours,” she replied glibly, pouring more wine into her glass.

He made his way around the chair, looking down at her. She was still draped in her Death Eater’s robes, which told him that she had not returned to Château Lestrange after the evening’s meeting. He could tell by the color of her face that she might’ve been crying, earlier. But she wasn’t crying any longer. Cautiously, he sank to sit on the sofa across from her.

“Oh, by all means,” she remarked sarcastically, “Make yourself comfortable.”

“It’s my house,” he murmured defensively. He didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish, sitting with her like this. Didn’t know what he hoped would happen, what they could possibly have to say to one another.

She was different, now. When they were children, she was quiet; she stayed out of the way. He could pretend like she didn’t exist, or that he would always be wealthier, more powerful, more loved. It was easy to believe that he would remain the favorite, the lucky one. The one with two parents who never abandoned him. It was easy to believe that the Dark Lord would never come back to exalt her alongside her family.

But it seemed to Draco that something in cousin’s eyes had changed forever, the night she’d been branded with the Dark Mark. And then Dumbledore died, and it changed again. She sank deeper, or maybe the water rose higher around her. Each step of the way, she’d hardened, and become worse. And then she killed Charity Burbage, and she was hardly recognizable anymore. She’d become a predator. Covered in her tattoos and piercings, sitting in his chair, in his manor, taunting him with her invulnerability. She had become a thing to be feared.

“Give me a glass of that,” he impulsively commanded.

She held up a finger, taking a deep drink. She paused to savor it for a moment before speaking. “That mouthful,” she exhaled cruelly, “Cost more than that 600-Galleon suit you’re wearing.”

The shame was quickly made plain on Draco’s face. He averted his gaze. “Ophelia…”

All at once, she was struck by a pang of guilt. She hadn’t expected it, and yet, here it was. Without a word, she summoned another glass from the kitchen and filled it for him. Her silent apology. Their fingers brushed when he took it from her.

He muttered a quick, “Thanks.”

She sighed wearily, sinking back into her chair. “You’re welcome.”

He took a cautious sip, still doing his best not to look at her. But he could hear her weak, tired laugh.

“Just look at what we’ve become, Draco.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he nearly snapped.

“No, of course you don’t,” she patronized, punctuating her remark with a languid drag from her cigarette, “And what a tragic pair we make.”

“Why do you hate me?” he impulsively asked, “ _When_ did you come to hate me, what did I do?” It sounded hollow and childish, even to him.

Her face darkened, then, in a way he’d never seen before. “ _Hate_ you?” she whispered, as though the question had caused her physical pain, “I’ve _killed_ for you. Who else can say such a thing?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” he defended weakly.

“Didn’t need to.”

They lapsed into silence again, and Ophelia quickly downed the rest of her glass before pouring another.

“What are we doing?” Draco suddenly asked.

“Drinking and smoking,” she replied, “Well, _I’m_ drinking and smoking. _You’re_ beginning to annoy me.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“We’re making a better world,” she said, “A world more pure.” Even to her, it sounded rehearsed.

“And do you think it’s right?”

The question surprised her, but she stood her ground. “It doesn’t matter what I think. We didn’t ask to be born into this, you and I. All we can do now is whatever it takes to survive. And afterwards, we will be rewarded. We will be royalty.”

“You don’t believe all that,” he argued weakly, “Not really.”

She grimaced, taking a deep drink from her wine. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I _know_ you don’t believe it,” he pressed, “Because you’re a spy.”

Ophelia laughed mockingly. “Well, well, well, Draco, I’m impressed. Once again, you’ve put your keen and penetrating mind to the task, and as usual, concluded the _bleeding obvious_.” She spat the words out like so much venom.

“No,” he argued, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Not a spy for the Dark Lord. You’re a spy for the Order of the Phoenix.”

She rolled her eyes, swallowing the rest of her wine in a single gulp. “You’ve gone mad.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he continued, undeterred, “You’re in love with one of the Weasley twins.”

At that, she finally flinched. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Or maybe it’s both of them, I’ve never been able to tell—”

“Shut your mouth, Draco!”

“—but I don’t think you ever stopped seeing them, after my father—”

“Shut your _mouth_!”

“Ophelia, fucking _look_ at me!”

It was the abruptness of his tone, more than anything, that shocked her. So much so that she actually did look at him. His expression was frank and imploring, palms upturned in his lap as a sign of his desperation.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he whispered.

For a moment, she actually considered thanking him. She blinked at him for a few seconds, and he saw something like relief flicker across her features. It was like peering back into the past, and catching a glimpse of what she had been. The girl she had been, before the world had compressed her down into this cruel, unyielding thing. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come. Her face hardened again, the flame and fury alight behind her eyes. She looked away, scooped up her wine bottle.

“Do whatever you like,” she spat, “I don’t care.”


	12. I Am Trying Very Hard to Be Here

It was mid-morning when Alecto Carrow Apparated to _Château Lestrange_. She found Ophelia seated, as always, in her wing-backed chair, lazily smoking a cigarette.

“Well! Aren’t we the little princess?” she sneered, “Sitting in your castle, while the rest of us do all the work, how _lovely_ for you.”

“What do you want, Carrow?” Ophelia snapped, refusing her the courtesy of an upward glance.

“Severus humbly requests an audience.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of _course_ , he does.”

Alecto kicked at the chair. “Get moving, Lestrange.”

Ophelia stood lazily, relishing every inch she rose above the short, stocky little woman. “Apparate me back.”

With a cruel grin, Alecto turned on the spot, and disappeared into a cloud of black smoke.

Ophelia sighed. “Of course.”

She had to Apparate in near the Shrieking Shack, where she encountered Selwyn and Mulciber patrolling the streets with a handful of Snatchers. Thankfully, they had the sense to give her a wide berth as she stormed through Hogsmeade in her long, traveling cloak. Perhaps it was the look on her face. Perhaps it was simply the Lestrange mythology that seemed to follow her around like a dark cloud. Again, at the front gates, she encountered more Snatchers, led by McNair. He gave her a polite nod, and let her into the castle. The halls were dark, and uncharacteristically subdued. Students shuffled along in silence, parting around her like a stream over a stone. A few whispered behind her back, and everyone seemed to either cringe away or glance up at her in reverent fear. It broke her heart.

_Don’t you understand?_ she silently implored, _I’m here to help you._

At one point, she caught sight of Neville, Ginny, and Luna off in the distance. She gave them a nod, and they returned the gesture. She could swear she even saw an excited smile play across Neville’s face at the sight of her.

When she arrived at the Headmaster’s office, she did not bother to knock. Snape was pacing back and forth across the room, and she could tell he was agitated.

Ophelia began abruptly. “Give me Apparation privileges.”

Snape furrowed his brow, casting her an absent glance. “What?”

“You heard me. The Carrows have Apparation privileges, so I want them, too.”

“The Carrows,” he sneered, “Come and go from this castle constantly.”

“So do I,” she parried, “And if you’re going to keep calling me up here all the bloody time—”

“I need you to do something for me,” he interrupted, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Do it yourself,” she dismissed, “Or make Draco do it, he’s already here!”

“This is a task that requires the utmost discretion.”

She sighed in frustration, letting her head fall back. “So, get Corban to do it! Or, and here’s a novel idea: do it your bloody self! My god, the _gall_! To come to _me_ , after what you did to—”

“It _must_ be you!”

She scowled at him, doubling down. “Give me Apparation privileges.”

“Here!” He drew his wand and waved it over her. Her skin tingled for a moment, and then the feeling dissipated. “There’s your Apparation privileges, you _spoiled_ little child!”

She turned, striding for the door. “Thank you, Severus,” she replied in a clipped tone, “It’s been a pleasure, as always, and I simply can’t wait until our next little—”

“Ophelia.”

She stopped. At once, she found herself disarmed by the tone of his voice. It was unlike anything she had ever heard from him before; somewhere between honest and desperate. And when she turned to look at him, and saw his downturned gaze, and the way he was clinging to the edge of the desk with a white-knuckle grip, something in her broke.

“Please.” It was no more than a soft murmur.

She furrowed her brow. “What?”

“You’re the only person who can do this.”

“ _What_?” she pressed, anxiety mounting.

He sighed deeply, as if to steel himself. “I need you… To retrieve something from your vault."

Stunned and silent, Ophelia drifted back through the castle. She hadn’t known what to tell Severus. So, she had told him yes. The replica sword now hung heavily at her side, tucked beneath her cloak. Weighing her down. Grounding her. She had forgotten entirely that Severus had made it possible for her to Apparate on school grounds. She was preoccupied with the task he had given her.

_“Go to your vault. Retrieve the sword, and replace it with this one. And then bring it to me. Speak of this to no one.”_

What his agendas were, she could scarcely imagine. All she knew for certain was that he was desperate.

And then, as luck would have it, Ophelia’s walk back through the castle proved most fortuitous.

“Oi! Lestrange!” someone called out from behind her.

She whipped around to see Neville elbowing his way through the crowd towards her. Her heart beat faster, joy spreading through her chest, but she forced a scowl. “You _dare_ speak to _me_?”

All of the nearby students froze, backing up and looking between the two of them in shock and horror.

“Yeah, I dare!” he snapped, striding for her, “I’ve been meaning to ask: how do you live with yourself, knowing that the best nights of your life were spent screaming George Weasley’s name?”

She had to resist the urge to laugh, even as she drew her wand. “What did you say to me?”

“Everyone else ‘round here knows,” Neville shrugged, “I mean, that _has_ to clash with your Pure-blood sensibilities, doesn’t it? Knowing that a _blood traitor_ like him had you gagging for it?” He raised his hands and shoved her back by the shoulders. She made a big, elaborate show of falling over, mostly to hide the smile pulling at her lips. It was luck alone that kept the sword from clanging tellingly against the floor.

She snarled furiously. “ _Expulso_!” Neville was blasted backwards, perhaps harder than she’d intended, and he fell in a gasping heap a few feet away. “Mark my words, Longbottom,” she spat, “The Carrows will hear about this!” She rose in a huff, pushing her way through the crowd of students. A few, weak cheers erupted in her wake.

When she was clear of the scene, she dug through the breast pocket of her cloak for the note he’d slipped her.

_Hogs Head, 15 minutes_

_Good to see you, O_

As she made her way back through Hogsmeade, Ophelia suddenly became aware of the sound of footsteps behind her.

“Madame Lestrange!”

She glanced over her shoulder to see one of the Snatchers jogging up beside her. Near her own age, long-haired and rakish-looking. Handsome-adjacent, if you were to squint. She offered no reply.

“Scabior,” he presumed to introduce himself, extending a filthy-nailed hand towards her.

She made a deliberate show of rejecting the gesture. “Who said you could talk to me?”

He cleared his throat, awkwardly retracting his hand. He glanced up ahead. “Going to the Hog’s Head, are you? I might buy you a drink, if you’re keen.”

Ophelia scowled.

“I think there are things we could do for one another,” he added, struggling to keep pace with her long strides, “If you’d hear me out.”

She rolled her eyes. “Selwyn?”

At once, her conversational assailant found himself hauled back by the scruff of his neck by a very large, very obedient Death Eater.

“If he comes within five meters of this building,” she commanded, pushing the door open, “Kill him.”

Selwyn nodded. “As you like, Madame Lestrange.”

As soon as the door had closed behind her, the barkeep was upon her. “You people checked this place weeks ago,” he snapped, “Already ruined my business, why can’t you just leave me in peace?”

She’d seen him before, during her time at Hogwarts. He was tall and thin, with long, stringy grey hair and a beard that surely must’ve reached his navel. His eyes were a brilliant, soul-piercing shade of blue, and hidden behind a pair of filthy spectacles. But as she met his gaze, she couldn’t help but sense something… _Familiar_.

“Stand down, Ab,” a cheerful voice sounded from across the room, “She’s with us.” Ophelia peered around the barman to see a smiling Neville clambering out from behind an open portrait hole above the hearth.

“Oh, you bastard!” she cried in relief, sprinting for him to crush him in an embrace.

“Easy, there,” he mumbled, color rising to his face as she pressed kiss after kiss to his cheeks.

“You know she’s a Lestrange, don’t you, boy?” the barkeep needled.

“Yeah,” Neville beamed, returning her embrace in earnest, “Only good one of the lot.”

“How have you fared?” she asked, clutching at his face, “My god, I’ve been so worried about all of you! Has it been completely unbearable?”

“Nah, we’ve been alright.”

The longer she looked at him, the worse he appeared: one of his eyes was bruised and swollen, and there were deep gouge marks on one of his cheeks. Nevertheless, his battered face shone with happiness.

“Neville,” she murmured, smile fading, “What’s happened to you?”

“Never mind all that,” he dismissed, taking her right hand in his and inspecting her tattoos, “What’s happened to _you_? Blimey, you’re a mess! At least mine’ll wear off, eh?”

“George says I’m the world’s spookiest paint-by-numbers,” she giggled.

“I don’t think you ought to linger,” Aberforth cautioned, casting a wary glance out the window, “Can’t imagine her father would react well to seeing the pair of you act like that.”

“Yeah,” Neville agreed, “We’d best be getting along, now.”

Ophelia looked to him in confusion. “Getting along where?”

He flashed her a kind of knowing smile. “You’ll see,” he reassured, ushering her towards the portrait hole from which he’d emerged, “You’ll be so proud, O, you’ll love it.”

Neville helped her up into the tunnel, and afterwards, she refused to let go of his hand. There were smooth stone steps leading down, down, it looked as though the passageway had been there for years. Brass lamps hung from the walls and the earthen floor had been pounded smooth. Their shadows rippled eerily across the wall as they made their way through.

“Hang on, how long has this been here?” she suddenly realized aloud, “This isn’t on the Marauder’s Map. In my day, there were only seven passages in and out of the school.”

“They sealed off all of those before the start of the year,” he relayed, ‘There’s no chance of getting through any of them now, not with curses over the entrances and Death Eaters and Dementors waiting at the exits.”

“How have the Carrows been?” she asked, knowing full well what the answer was going to be.

“Well, Amycus has turned Defense Against the Dark Arts into… Well, just Dark Arts. We’re meant to practice the _Cruciatus_ Curse on people who’ve earned detentions—”

Ophelia hissed in disapproval, clutching his hand a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he chuckled morosely, “That’s how I got this one—" he pointed at a particularly deep gash in his cheek, “I just flat out refused. Some people are all too keen, though; Crabbe and Goyle love it. First time they’ve ever been the best at anything, I expect.”

“And Alecto’s Muggle Studies?”

“She just bangs on for hours and hours about how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drove wizards into hiding by being vicious towards them, and how the natural order is being re-established. I got this one—" he indicated another slash to his face, “When I asked how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.”

Ophelia could only gape at him, coming to a dead halt. This was not the boy she’d met in the Room of Requirement, all those years ago. The boy who wouldn’t meet her gaze, who stuttered in terror as he shakily drew his wand against her. The boy who shied away from her touch, even after they’d become friends.

“What?” he asked, tugging lightly at her hand, “Let’s go, we’re nearly there.”

“You—” she stammered, letting him pull her along, “Neville, you’ve got to be careful!”

“C’mon, you wouldn’t have put up with it either. I know you.”

“Yes, but—"

“It helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. Like you and Fred and George did with Umbridge.”

“They’ll kill you!”

Neville waved her off. “They won’t. They don’t want to spill too much Pure blood, so they’ll torture us a bit if we’re mouthy, but they won’t actually kill us.”

Ophelia couldn’t decide what was worse: the things that Neville was saying or the matter-of-fact tone in which he was saying them.

After a few minutes, they arrived at their destination. Ophelia did not recognize the room at first. It was enormous, and looked rather like the interior of a particularly well-furnished clubhouse, or perhaps a gigantic ship’s cabin. Multicolored hammocks were strung from the ceiling, and hung from a balcony that ran around the windowless stone walls, which were draped with bright tapestries. She counted among them the gold Gryffindor lion, emblazoned on scarlet; the black badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow, and the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue. Only the silver and green of Slytherin were absent. There were overstuffed bookcases, a few broomsticks propped against the walls, and a long table housing a massive radio.

“Is this… Is this the Room of Requirement?” she asked in astonishment.

“Yeah, it is!”

“It’s really outdone itself, hasn’t it?”

Ophelia looked up to see Luna and Ginny standing before her, and though they looked tired, they were smiling. She ran to her friends in relief, wrapping her arms around them.

“How have you been?” Ginny asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she breathlessly exclaimed, clinging to them even as they tried to withdraw, “It doesn’t matter at all, the only thing I care about is you! However did you do this?”

“It was all Neville,” Luna said.

He shrugged. “The Carrows were chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a hideout. I managed to get through the door and this is what I found! Well, it wasn’t exactly like this when I arrived, it was loads smaller, there was only one hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it’s expanded as more and more of the DA have arrived.”

“And the Carrows can’t get in?” she asked, looking around for the door.

“No!” Ginny announced proudly, “It’s a proper hideout. And as long as one of us stays in here, they can’t get at us, the door won’t open. It’s all down to Neville. He really _understands_ this Room. You’ve got to ask it for exactly what you need, like, ‘ _I don’t want any Carrow supporters to be able to get in_ ’ and it’ll do it for you!”

Ophelia smiled, realizing that it would perhaps be inappropriate to reminisce aloud about similar favors the Room had paid her, over the years.

Not in front of Fred and George’s little sister, anyway.

“It’s pretty straightforward, honestly,” Neville replied, modest but clearly quite proud, “I’d been in here about a day and a half, and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get something to eat, and that’s when the passage to the Hog’s Head opened up. I went through it and met Aberforth. He’s been providing us with food, because for some reason, that’s the one thing the Room doesn’t really do.”

“That Aberforth fellow,” Ophelia suddenly remarked, “Who is that?”

Luna smiled. “A bit familiar-looking, isn’t he?”

She furrowed her brow. “Yes, but I don’t think it’s just because I’ve seen him in the Hog’s Head before.”

“Something else?” Neville prodded, a kind of knowing smile on his face, “Can’t quite place it?”

She looked between her companions, slightly stunned. “Am I being made fun of, here? What?”

“That’s Aberforth _Dumbledore_ ,” Ginny finally revealed, “Our Dumbledore’s only brother.”

The quartet sat together in the Room of Requirement for as long as they could, talking and catching up. Neville, Ginny, and Luna told her about how they were still using the old D.A. Galleons to communicate, and how they’d spent the entire year pulling rather Fred-and-George-esque pranks on Snape and the Carrows. Sneaking out at night to graffiti ‘ _Dumbledore’s Army- Still Recruiting_!’ on the walls in unremovable paint, or to set off the occasional firework or Portable Swamp. Never mind the consequences to them. It gave their classmates hope, and that was more than enough for them.

Ophelia’s stories were much less grand. Her triumphs had been few and far between, lately, but she told them what good things she could. Tottenham Court road, and how Ron nearly sent her through the wall. Bill and Fleur. But, at Snape’s request, she said nothing of the sword, or of the task she was about to carry out.

By the time Ophelia Lestrange left Hogwarts that day, a Slytherin banner had appeared in the Room of Requirement.


	13. Go Down in Glory

“Potter and his friends have been captured,” Draco shouted.

Ophelia peered down over the railing from a high floor of the Château Lestrange library tower. She’d been poring through all of the ancient, evil tomes, trying to find some scrap of information on Horcruxes, and perhaps how to identify or locate them. All to no avail, of course. Some secrets, she supposed, must be guarded too closely to be written down. It’s just as well, she thought. Even if she could figure it out, she’d have no way to get the information to Harry.

And now Draco had appeared out of who-knows-where, and he was shouting up at her from the ground floor, panicked and winded.

She scowled. “Who the hell let _you_ in here?”

“Did you hear me?” he bit back, “I said—”

“Yes, Potter and his friends,” she mocked, closing her book with a snap. “Captured at last.” Already, her heart was pounding, mind reeling in search of a solution. In this amount of time, on such short notice… Her list of contacts was thin, indeed.

“That Snatcher brought them in,” he continued, “To my place. The one who fancies you. Your aunt has them, now, she’s torturing Granger. The others are in the dungeon.”

“What are you, the town crier?” she sniped, “Why are you wasting my time with this? Get out of my house!” _Leave so I can Disapparate._

Draco began to falter a little. “They don’t know it’s them, yet. Potter’s face, it’s— But I know it’s them. And they’ll put it together soon enough, and then they’ll call the Dark Lord.”

She rolled her eyes. “It all sounds well in-hand. What the hell do you want me to do about it?”

“S-save them.”

She choked on her next retort before it could escape her lips. _Did he…?_ No, that’s not what he said. She couldn’t have heard him right. She scowled down at him. “What did you say to me?”

“Please,” he whispered, eyes downcast, “Save them.”

She stammered wildly for a moment. “You— You’ve gone absolutely mad! I ought to turn you in for this, how _dare_ —!"

“I would do it myself, if I could, but I _can’t_!” he shouted up to her, voice beginning to break against his desperation, “Please! I know you’re a spy, and I know you can help them!”

“What is this?”

“No one knows I came over here, and I’m begging you! _Please_!”

Her mouth hung open as his desperate cries echoed through the tower. 

It dawned on her slowly at first, just a whisper in the back of her mind. But the longer she dwelt on the thought, the louder it became: this was it. This was the moment she’d spent so many months bracing for. Like she’d said to Mr. Weasley, the night George had lost his ear: “ _If it comes to something like that, I’ll see them released, damn the consequences to me.”_

She could steal the dungeon key, make like she was going down to torture them, and then— What about Hermione? Where was _she_?

_“I’ll more than likely end up in Azkaban, when this is all over. No matter who wins. That is, if I live that long.”_

If Voldemort wasn’t there yet, she could just go in wand-out. Smash and grab, the full reveal. Cutting through Lucius and Narcissa would be no issue, but Draco would be furious with her. Even if their deaths would be the best thing that ever happened to him. Bellatrix would put up a good fight, though.

If she could just get them to Bill and Fleur’s, _yes_ , that would be the place.

_“If I have to die, let it be for something worthwhile._ ”

Fred and George would come to understand, someday. Once the war had been won. They’d know why she did it. After all, what could be more worthwhile than, in one fell swoop, saving the lives of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ollivander, and Griphook?

They’d know it was her, of course, even if she was discreet about it. The Death Eaters, Voldemort. Her family who loved her, wrong as it was. There would be no question in their minds, once the dust had settled. But isn’t that precisely why she’d had the _Fascinum Statimoris_ placed?

No, they’d never get their hands on her, alive. She’d see to that.

It was a long time before either of them spoke, locked in this tense, dead heat. Balanced on the edge of a knife.

And then Ophelia commanded, “Draco, look at me.”

Her cousin’s ice-chip eyes flitted up to hers, pleading. _Yes_ , she thought. _Maybe I can save him, too_. She held his gaze for a moment, hoping that he understood.

_Time to die._

And then she Disapparated. 

“Ab!” she shouted, storming into the Hog’s Head, “ _Aberforth_!” Someone needed to know, she had to tell _someone_.

“Quit your screamin’,” he grumbled tiredly, stepping out from behind the bar, “You trying to bring the whole bloody place down?”

She opened her mouth to speak, and then paused at the sight of the Malfoy’s House Elf, scurrying along with Aberforth. He regarded her cautiously, peering up at her with his massive, moonlike eyes. After all the years they’d spent together, it was no wonder he was wary.

She had not been kind, in her youth.

“What, then?” the barkeep pressed, “Out with it!”

“Can—” Ophelia stammered, “Dobby, can you Apparate in and out of the Malfoy’s dungeon?”

The elf glanced up at Aberforth for a moment, as if seeking confirmation, before looking to her. “Yes, Madame Lestrange,” he squeaked, “I-I’m an elf.”

Her heart skipped a beat, mind racing to come up with a new plan. _Yes_ , she thought, beginning to nod, _this is better. Much_ _better_. “Harry and his friends need our help,” she announced, “We have to get them out of that dungeon, and we only have a few minutes to do it.”

It was like the tiny elf had been suddenly possessed by unshakeable courage. No longer afraid, but resolute, he stepped proudly out from behind Aberforth and looked her straight in the eyes. “What should I do?”

“Ten seconds,” Ophelia said, “Meet me inside that dungeon in ten seconds.”

He gave her a brisk nod.

At that, Ophelia turned on the spot and Disapparated.

She re-materialized in the entryway of Malfoy manor, sprinting for the dungeon before her feet had even touched the ground. Hermione’s screams could be heard in the distance, echoing through the cavernous halls, punctuated by Bellatrix’s shrill laughter.

Down the stairs, quick and quiet. Wormtail was standing there, up against the barred door, muttering something to his captives. She could see Harry and Ron peering out from the darkness. Just as their eyes flitted up over his shoulder towards her, Ophelia drew her wand and aimed straight for Wormtail’s head.

“ _Stupefy_!”

He collapsed, forehead clanging loudly against the bars as he fell, and the dungeon key flew up out of his pocket and into her grasp. In a single, swift movement, she tossed it through the bars and straight into Dobby’s waiting hand.

“Ophelia!” Harry stammered, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Luna, Ollivander, Griphook and Ron were all looking between her and Dobby in disbelief.

“Shell Cottage!” she whispered to the elf, “Take as many as you can, and then come back for Hermione!”

Dobby gave her a proud salute, gathering Ollivander, Luna, and the Goblin into his arms.

“Thank you,” Ollivander gasped, breaking free from the quarry and reaching through the bars for her.

She took his hand, pressing her lips to his knuckles. “Thank the elf.”

With a _crack_ , she was gone again.

Fleur began to scream instantly, Bill leaping to his feet and drawing his wand.

“Stop screaming, it’s me!” she shouted, hurrying across the room for them.

“Hey, what the hell?” Bill demanded, stumbling along as she took them each by the arms to drag them to the window.

“Wait…” she commanded, heart pounding as she gazed out at the grey beach, “Wait…”

“Ophelia—"

She held up a hand to silence him. “ _Wait_!”

Just then, there came a loud _pop_ , and a huddled mass of figures appeared on the sand. With another _pop_ , the elf had gone, again.

“There!” she pointed, shoving them for the door, “Go!”

_“Mon dieu!”_

“Oh my god—”

Without hesitation, Bill and Fleur sprinted from the house, towards their waiting companions.

“Good,” Ophelia whispered aloud, nodding frantically as she watched them skid to a halt over Ollivander, Luna, and Griphook. “Good, that’s… Good. Alright.” She turned her wand to her own face, then, cringing away preemptively. “ _Effringo_.”

No sooner had she muttered the incantation than her nose snapped loudly to the side. She cried out in pain, clutching at the windowsill for support as blood poured down her face. Her eyes stung with quick tears, and she was left gasping for a moment. She could feel the bruise rise instantly, spreading from the bridge of her nose to hang heavy beneath her eyes.

She looked up just in time to see the elf re-appear on the beach, with Harry, Ron, and Hermione in-tow. She exhaled in relief, the sound rattling painfully from her throat. And, despite all of her worry, she allowed herself a smile.

But her work was not done. With another _crack_ , Ophelia left Shell Cottage.

“They let the Potter boy escape!” she roared, striding towards the Shrieking Shack, where her father and uncle were preparing a small congregation of Snatchers for another raid.

The pair sprinted for her in a panic.

“What happened?” Rodolphus begged, gaze lingering on her broken nose. His hands hovered over her face, eyes widening in desperation as he asked,

“Who did that to you?” her father demanded, preemptively drawing his wand. As though the culprit were somewhere nearby, ready to spring out from behind a tree.

“P- _Potter_!” she wailed, throwing herself into her uncle’s arms, “It’s all Lucius’ fault!”

Rodolphus stammered for a moment _._ _“Qu'est-ce que c'est?”_

“Lucius and Bellatrix and Wormtail! We had him, Rodolphus, _we had him and they let him get away_!”

Rodolphus looked to his younger brother, and as reality set in, his shocked expression turned to a bitter sneer. With a furious snarl, Rabastan took them each by the wrist and Disapparated.

The scene at Malfoy Manor was apocalyptic. The drawing room was utterly destroyed: furniture blasted to pieces, diamond chandelier shattered all across the floor. For a moment, Ophelia was genuinely disappointed that she’d missed what looked like it had been a good bit of fun. Bellatrix and Lucius were shouting at one another, while Narcissa tried in vain to break up the row. It seemed that no one had yet noticed that Wormtail was lying unconscious at the bottom of the dungeon stairs.

And then the Lestrange brothers made their presence known.

“ _Tu es une salope stupide_!” Rodolphus roared, taking his wife by the hair and dragging her away from Lucius. “What have you done? _What have you done_?” Bellatrix kicked and fought like a wild animal, sending haphazard curses in every direction. Ophelia had to duck to avoid a jet of green light that went slicing past her head.

Rabastan, meanwhile, was stomping over to Lucius. With more rage in his eyes than she’d ever seen before, he raised his wand and cried, “ _Crucio_!” The Malfoy patriarch fell, writhing and screaming, to the floor. Narcissa could only watch and weep, rocking back and forth on the floor.

It was then that Ophelia caught sight of Draco, shrinking into the far corner by the door. He was shaking badly, watching the proceedings through wide, glassy eyes. One hand pinching at the bridge of her nose, Ophelia stepped over to her cousin. He looked to her expectantly, lips parted around a question that never came.

“There,” she whispered, “They’re saved.”

As she turned to leave, Draco attempted to follow. To what end, she couldn’t possibly guess.

“No!” she whispered harshly, taking him by the arm and wrenching him back around to face the violent melee, “I want you to watch this.”

“O-Ophelia—”

“You’re going to watch,” she hissed in his ear, “Because the day is fast approaching when it will be us or them. And you need to decide, once and for all, where you stand.”

He whimpered as she shoved him away. Disgusted and exhausted, Ophelia left Malfoy Manor.

It would be months before she heard that Dobby had not survived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that being an asshole to house elves is one of Ophelia's biggest flaws.


	14. In This Twilight

She was at Malfoy Manor when the Mark began to burn. And then the voice came, slithering into all of their heads at once.

“ _The time has come_ ,” it hissed, “ _Harry Potter has been seen in Hogsmeade_.”

Bellatrix stopped her pacing and began to cackle, head thrown back in celebration. Narcissa’s eyes widened, glistening with fear, darting between her husband and sister. Ophelia was reclined in the black, wing-backed chair, legs crossed casually as she delicately clasped a cigarette. She looked upward with stern attention as he spoke.

“ _Gather your strength, my loyal followers_ ,” he continued, “ _We will meet in the Shrieking Shack in one hour_. _Do not disappoint me._ ”

With that, the voice faded.

“ _YESSS_!!!” Bellatrix cried, leaping to her feet and sending a whip of crackling lightening from the tip of her wand before Disapparating into a cloud of black smoke.

Narcissa’s gaze fell to her niece, then. Her eyes were wide and glassy. And in a quavering voice, she begged, “Will you find Draco? Please, before this begins.”

“ _Silence_!” Lucius interrupted, “How _dare_ you, you _spineless_ —”

Ophelia rolled her eyes, vanishing the remains of her cigarette with a snap of her long-nailed fingers.

“Please, Lucius,” she moaned, clasping his hands, “He’s only a boy!”

“Then I am only a girl,” Ophelia finally spoke, uncrossing her legs and rising gracefully to stand, “He bears the Mark, the same as I do. And if he’s in the castle, he’ll know soon enough.”

Her aunt fell to her knees, grabbing at her niece’s skirt. “Ophelia, please! If ever—”

She recoiled in genuine disgust, yanking her skirt from her aunt’s grip. She sneered down at her, recalling all too clearly the obscene number of times this woman had struck her. “Too long have Severus and I carried him on our backs. Too long have I spared him the Dark Lord’s wrath. Today, he will prove his loyalty, or he will die.”

“Ophelia,” Lucius began, eyes averted, “Perhaps it would be prudent if—”

She interrupted him with a disdainful scoff, and he slunk back.

“My god,” she spat, “How far the proud name of Malfoy has fallen.” Without another word, she Disapparated. Just as Narcissa began to wail.

She reappeared with a _crack_ , inside the Hog’s Head. Her heart was hammering with fear.

“ _Ab_!!” she shouted, drawing her wand.

“Quit your screamin’,” he grumbled, emerging from the corridor, “I already sent ‘em through. Longbottom said more would be along, and it looks like you’re the first.”

“We need to get the word out,” she said breathlessly, striding across the room for the portrait of Ariana, “ _You_ need to. The Death Eaters are gathering in the Shrieking Shack, they’ll be here in an hour.”

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“I need to warn them inside,” she explained, clambering up into the tunnel.

The journey was not an easy one for her. She was not dressed for battle, nor for crouching her way through a rough, stone passageway. Death Eater robes, with all of the shining, metal pieces. Those damned high-heeled boots that rose mid-thigh, and the grey skirt that brushed the ground as she walked. Impractical, pure-blood nonsense. If she’d have been thinking, she would have changed. But there was no time.

After a few minutes, she could see the warm light ebbing in from the end of the tunnel, and hear the bright, excited chatter. When she emerged into the hideout, all eyes turned to her. Dozens of wands raised in unison, faces turning stony.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Seamus Finnegan demanded, “How’d you get into that tunnel? What’ve you done with Aber—”

“No!” Harry insisted as he, Ron, and Hermione stepped in front of her, “It’s alright, she’s with us.”

“Has been for a while now,” Neville corroborated, with a nod and a smile. “Good to see you, O.”

Gradually, everyone lowered their wands. Nobody could argue, when a Longbottom was smiling at a Lestrange.

Ron extended a hand to her, helping her step down out of the tunnel. “Not really dressed for it, are you?” he chided, looking her up and down. She gave him an admonishing look, before reluctantly kissing him on the cheek.

“Harry, listen,” she impressed, taking him by the arm and dragging him a few paces away, “He knows you’re here. You shouldn’t have been out on the street in Hogsmeade, that was really stupi—”

“Yeah, I know it was, O,” he interrupted, “But it’s done. How long do you reckon we’ve got?”

“50 minutes. I left as soon as…” Her eyes flitted down towards her left forearm, “As soon as he told us you were here.”

Harry nodded. “Okay. Alright.”

“Why _are_ you here?” she asked, “What is it you’re doing?”

“Look, I know I’ve put everyone in loads of danger coming here, but I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t absolutely necessary. The last Horcrux is here,” he explained, “In the castle. I—I think it’s the lost diadem of Ravenclaw.”

Before she could speak, the booming voice of Alecto Carrow sounded from all around them. “ _All students will proceed to the Great Hall immediately. Anyone found in non-compliance will be severely punished_.”

All eyes fell to Harry.

“They need to go,” Ophelia said, “We can wait here and bring the Order through.”

He nodded to the crowd, triggering a flurry of robes. “I’m going with them,” he announced.

“No, Harry, you can’t!” Hermione cried.

“I need to see Snape face-to-face.”

This _again_? “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about him, Harry,” Ophelia insisted, “Honestly—”

“Do I?” he interrupted combatively, “Tell me, O, what does George think about him?”

The remark stung. Perhaps more deeply than he’d intended. She offered no reply, simply furrowing her brow in a very Lestrange-like show of disapproval.

After a moment, he softened, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. “You know that this is it, then? You can’t go back to You-Know-Who, now, you’re _with_ us. Really _with_ us. He’ll know you’ve turned, if he doesn’t already.”

She breathed a monosyllabic laugh, smiling sadly. “Harry,” she wrapped a hand on the back of his neck, “I’ve been with you from the start.”

He gave her a nod and a half smile, before turning away and moving for the door. Neville handed him an overlarge Gryffindor robe, and he threw it over his shoulders.

“Hey,” she called out to Neville, pointing towards the radio on a nearby table, “Can I use that?”

“Of course,” he replied, “The password for an emergency broadcast is _Buckbeak_ , and your codename is—”

“Hemlock,” she finished for him, “The twins must think they’re so clever.”

He cast her a bemused look. “The _twins_?”

“What?”

“Come on, O,” he scolded lightly, “That’s an Herbology joke. Credit where it’s due, thank you very much.”

She beamed. “I’ll never doubt you again, dear friend.”

With that, he and Harry joined the throng of students heading for the door. Ophelia looked between Ron and Hermione, their faces filled with fear as they watched him walk away.

“Oh, hey, Ophelia!” Harry called back through the crowd, “Thanks for the sword! Honestly, we couldn’t have done it without you.”

She smiled genuinely, for the first time in weeks, and Harry returned it in earnest before being swept away by the crowd. She made her way across the bustling room, and sat down before the radio. A list of codenames sat on the table beside it, along with some rudimentary instructions. She drew her wand and tapped at the microphone.

_“Buckbeak.”_ The machine hummed to life, giving off a brief screech of feedback.

Meanwhile, the door to the Room of Requirement closed with a boom, and Ophelia, Ron, and Hermione found themselves alone in the hideout.

She picked up the microphone, holding down the button and watching the red, broadcasting light illuminate.

“This is Hemlock,” she announced, “Coming to you from Ariana’s place. I need all the birds we’ve got, as soon as possible. Lightening has struck, and the Chief Death Eater is _en route_. We’ve got less than an hour. Again, this is Hemlock, requesting all birds to Ariana’s place, immediately.”

She set the microphone down, shutting it off. Now, all they could do was wait. And hope that she and Aberforth had managed to get through to someone. _Anyone_.

“He’s right, you know,” Hermione broke the silence, sinking to sit on a nearby armchair, “Without that sword, we wouldn’t have destroyed the locket, or gotten to the cup in the… In your vault.”

“Had to trade it to that greedy little git Griphook, though,” Ron interjected bitterly, “So’s he’d get us in. So, I dunno how we think we’re gonna destroy the last bloody Horcruxes now.”

With a pang of horrible realization, Ophelia raised a hand to her forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she said, eyes wide with regret, “If I’d have known it was in there, I would’ve gotten it out for you along with the sword. I put you all in so much danger.”

“You did everything you could, mate,” Ron reassured, sitting down beside her, “Besides, it’s done now. We made it out alive.”

Hermione stifled a giggle. “I borrowed some of your clothes,” she admitted, “When we broke into Gringotts.”

She gave her a somewhat stern look. “You what?”

“Well,” she hesitated, realizing that Ophelia might not find this story _quite_ as amusing as she did. “I had to Polyjuice into Bellatrix, and I had one of her hairs after what happened at the Malfoy’s, but Fleur and I didn’t have anything appropriate to wear, anything really _believable_ , so…” She looked to Ron for support.

“So, we thought, hey? Who do we know who has the dress sense of a Victorian corpse?” he continued, “Oh, right, _Ophelia_. Of course. And I reckoned you had to keep clothes at the shop, what with… Anyway. So…”

“So, we went over, broke in, which _wasn’t_ easy, mind you, and… Sort of… Stole your clothes from Fred and George’s,” she finished. “Honestly, Ophelia, I don’t know how you dress like that all the time, it’s absolutely exhausting.”

She couldn’t help but feel a little proud of them. But mixed in with it was an odd blend of loss and betrayal. She couldn’t get into the shop, what had she done wrong? Had she not tried hard enough? And now she had no more clothes there, as though she’d never been a part of that place at all.

It was Death Eater selfishness, of that she was acutely aware. But she felt it, nonetheless. Instead of voicing any of it, she focused on the positive. “I have to say, I’m impressed,” she praised genuinely, “That’s a fantastic bit of tradecraft you managed there, truly.”

“I promise, I’ll get your clothes back to you,” Hermione said, “They’re in here, somewhere, I know that.” She brandished her beaded bag.

“Honestly, Hermione, don’t worry about it,” she reassured her, “I’m just glad I could help, I suppose.”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you.”

“We haven’t heard anything about you for weeks,” Ophelia explained, “Not since you left Bill and Fleur’s. And even they’ve got no idea where most of the Order is. Neither does Aberforth.”

Hermione blanched. “So, you mean you’ve no idea—”

“—How many people are about to come through that tunnel?” she finished, “No.”

After a pause, her mind drifted to a place she’d been avoiding for months, a place she’d successful avoided during this very conversation. It was a subject that made her stomach turn with worry.

“Have…” she began tentatively, “Have you heard anything about…?”

Ron shook his head bitterly. “No. Not mum, or dad, or the twins. Nothing since the wedding.”

She nodded, feeling her vision begin to swim. But she forced herself to blink through it. “They… The twins, I heard them on Potter Watch, once. Months ago. I’m renting a place in Knockturn Alley, and so every once in a while, I go by the shop. But it’s been boarded up and empty since you left me at Tottenham Court Road, as you well know. I went there straight after, just like I promised.”

“Least we know Percy’s doing alright, the stupid git,” Ron scowled, “We have to see his smug face on the front page of the Daily Prophet every other day, don’t we?”

Hermione reached across the table and took her hand. “They’re smart, Ophelia,” she reassured her, “More than that, they’re really brave.”

Ron scoffed. “Stupid and lucky, more like.”

Hermione broke into a wide smile, “Remember our first year? They spent all winter enchanting snowballs to try and knock the turban off Quirrel’s head.”

She laughed, the threat of tears receding as quickly as it had come. At the time, she’d found that behavior so shockingly inappropriate.

“Right,” Ron nodded, “If they can spend months chucking snowballs at You-Know-Who’s face and get away with it, they can dodge some thick, half-troll Snatchers for a few months.”

Just then, Ariana Dumbledore appeared in the distance of her tableaux. The trio leapt to their feet, shuffling against the wall beside the painting, wands brandished and ready. Ophelia’s heart picked up a beat in anticipation. Slowly, the painting swung open.

“ _Ophelia_!” Suddenly, she found herself smothered in an embrace.

She nearly cried out when she realized it was Tonks.

“You’re alive!” her cousin gasped, “We hadn’t heard anything in months, we thought you’d been found out!”

Awash with relief, she pressed her eyes shut, knees buckling beneath her. “I know, I’m sorry! I couldn’t risk it!” She took her face in her hands, kissing her cheeks back and forth. “How are you? How’s Teddy?”

Remus emerged from the portrait hole and put an arm around his wife’s shoulders, smiling warmly. “Growing like a weed.”

“He had red hair when he woke up this morning, and it was blue when we dropped him off with my mum just now,” Tonks announced proudly.

Remus nodded proudly. “Takes after his mother.”

A loud, piercing shriek suddenly echoed from the portrait hole, and Remus found himself unceremoniously shoved aside.

Fleur was upon her in an instant, clutching at her face and wailing at the top of her lungs, _“Ma petite soeur!_ _Nous pensions que vous étiez mort! Où étiez-vous?”_

“I know!” Ophelia stammered, placing her hands on her cheeks, too, “I know, _je suis vraiment désolé, je suis resté coincé et je n'ai pas pu m'échapper_!”

“ _Vous ne pouvez pas nous faire peur comme ça_!” she cried, kissing her cheeks back and forth with enough aggression to bruise, “BILL! I found her! She’s here, she’s alright!”

“I know,” he said wearily, stepping down out of the portrait hole, “I heard you, darling.”

Ophelia beamed up at him, placing a hand on his scarred cheek. “Billy—”

“Ahh, that’s no proper hello, come here—” He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground and squeezing her so hard her ribs creaked.

Despite herself, she couldn’t help the small rush of heat that rose to her face. “No, you’re going to break me,” she squeaked.

He laughed, pressing a kiss to her cheek as he set her down. “Where the hell have you been? You’ve had us all in a right state, worrying about you.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheeks back and forth. “But I’m here, now.”

Molly and Arthur stepped out of the tunnel, then, Ron ran to them in relief. Kingsley followed closely in their wake, beckoning severely to Ophelia.

Fleur snatched for her arm as she turned away. “ _Non, attends! Ils viennent juste de passer, maintenant—”_

“Oi,” Bill murmured with a wry smile, pulling his wife away, “Let her figure it out on her own, it’ll be brilliant.”

“Tell me what you know,” Kingsley urged, pulling Ophelia a few paces away from the crowd and the noise.

“We’ve got less than an hour. He’s gathering forces at the Shrieking Shack. I believe he’s going to send the Snatchers in over the bridge from the forest, and the Death Eaters in through the front,” she explained, “But Kingsley, Harry’s gone to the Great Hall with the rest of the students to confront Snape.”

He shook his head in dismay, rubbing wearily at his temples.

“I know. We tried to stop him. The last Horcrux is here in the castle, but he’s got no means to destroy it.”

“We’ll see if we can buy him some time.”

She nodded in agreement. “That’s all we can do.”

Turning away, her gaze fell on a smiling Molly Weasley. Ophelia glanced around tentatively before realizing that, to her complete shock, she was looking at her. Molly opened her arms, and the stunned Ophelia went to her, and fell into her embrace.

“We’re all so glad you’re safe, my dear,” Molly whispered, squeezing her tightly.

“I—I thought we’d lost you,” she tentatively whispered back, “All of you. I’ve been so worried, I—”

She felt a touch on her arm.

“Ophelia.” It was Hermione, smiling faintly.

She followed her gaze to the opening of the tunnel, and her heart all but stopped in her chest. The stone seemed to shift beneath her feet, threatening to send her toppling to the floor. Fred and George were clambering out into the room. Astonishingly long-haired, sporting unkempt ponytails.

She could’ve screamed.

“Oi,” Fred whispered to his brother, nodding towards her, “Told you she’d be right.”

Their eyes met, and she could hardly contain the shock and relief on her face. She turned back to Molly, who was beaming up at her with quiet pride. It was an expression Ophelia had given up hope of ever seeing. One that said, “ _I know. I understand. And it’s alright.”_

“Go on,” she whispered, nodding back towards her sons.

Beaming, they opened their arms to her as she stumbled towards them. And before she knew it, she was wrapped up in them, her face pressed tightly between theirs. They were here. Warm and alive and finally, _finally_ in her arms again. The twins realized she was shaking.

“Take it easy,” Fred admonished playfully, rubbing his hand up and down her back.

“You didn’t think they’d catch us out that easily, did you?”

“We’re smarter than a bunch of half-wit Snatchers.”

She placed a hand on either of their cheeks, looking back and forth between identical pairs of hazel eyes. Stammering. Overwhelmed with love. Relieved beyond words. After a moment, she fell back into their embrace. Fred slid a hand up the back of her neck, George wrapped an arm around her waist.

“I love you,” she finally managed, face pressed into their shoulders.

“ _I love you_ ,” they replied in unison, clasping her tighter.

She kissed each of their mouths in turn, before realizing she’d left dark lipstick smeared on their faces.

They looked at one other, beaming. “Not really your color, Georgie,” Fred teased.

“Nor yours.”

She laughed genuinely, wiping the lipstick away for them with a corner of her long, billowing sleeve.

“Oi!” It was Ron. “I’ve made my peace that it happens, but that doesn’t mean I want to see it. Yeah?”

“Stop it, Ronald,” Hermione scolded quietly, tugging at his arm, “Honestly!”

The twins each threw an arm over Ophelia’s shoulder, keeping her close as they squared up to him.

“You what, mate?” Fred jabbed.

“Yeah, if Mum’s alright, what does that make you?”

A quick glance towards Mrs. Weasley proved that she was less ‘ _alright’_ and more ‘ _gritting her teeth and_ _tolerating it for the moment_.’

Fred and George turned to look at each other. “I reckon he’s jealous.”

“I reckon you’re right.”

“The Death Eaters are on their way,” Kingsley announced, voice booming over the low chatter, “We need to get to the Great Hall, subdue the Carrows, and counsel with Minerva to fortify the castle. Harry’s down there already. We’ll deal with Severus however we have to. That’s up to him, now. Everyone clear?”

The room called back in unanimous agreement, drawing their wands.

“Listen,” Ophelia beckoned for everyone’s attention, “The Dark Lord means for this to end, tonight. Here, in this place.”

Fred and George tightened their hold on their partner, gazing at her with love and admiration.

“And I just want you all to know,” she continued, eyes travelling across the resolute faces of her companions, “I’m honored to share the battlefield with you tonight. And I couldn’t have asked for more faithful allies, or more beautiful friends.”

“And we couldn’t have asked for a more dedicated spy, my dear,” Arthur replied, smiling warmly.

“Thank you,” she nodded briskly, forcing herself to focus. “Alright. That’s enough of my talk. Let’s go to it.”

As they strode from the room, Ophelia suddenly paused.

“Oh, hang on a moment,” she muttered in frustration.

Fred and George took a step back and watched as she stripped away her cumbersome, grey cloak, discarding it on the floor and kicking it aside. And then she unbuckled the mask hanging by her hip, and tossed it high into the air, away from them.

Accompanied by an expert wave of her wand, she cried, “ _Reducto_!”

The curse hit the mask dead-on, and it shattered to a million, glittering, silver pieces. The twins winced in shock, watching as they rained down onto the stone floor.

She gave a brisk nod, turning away and striding for the door. The twins jogged up either side of her, beaming with quiet pride. George slung an arm around her waist, Fred slipped his hand into hers. And together, they joined their friends on the march to war.


	15. Eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And everything under the sun is in tune,  
> But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

When they reached the hall, Kingsley sent the massive, double-doors banging open with a strong-armed wave of his wand, and the room collectively gasped as they lined up in the doorway.

Snape stood on the raised stage, flanked by the Carrows. Rows and rows of frightened, battered students cowered before them, faces lighting up with a mixture of hope and confusion at the Order’s arrival. Harry was standing in the middle of the room, facing off with Snape. As if spurned by the appearance of the cavalry, McGonagall strode out from the edge of the room to join Harry, wand raised towards Snape.

Before she could react, however, Snape sent a curse whipping through the air towards her. She deflected it expertly, taking a steadying step backwards. Snape struck again, sending a massive, writhing snake shooting from the tip of his wand, and McGonagall turned it to a cloud of smoke with a strong-armed wave.

Ophelia had no choice. She released Fred’s hand, and sprinted forward with her wand drawn.

“Ophelia, don’t!”

Paying no heed to her lovers as they tried to grab her, she stepped in front of McGonagall, flinging her left arm out across her chest.

With an expression that was cold and furious, she sternly commanded, “Severus, that’s enough!”

His dark, gleaming eyes traveled across her face for only the briefest of moments, stern expression yielding almost imperceptibly. And then, without warning, he leapt backwards, Disapparating through the massive, stained-glass window into a cloud of smoke. Only the Carrows remained.

“What do you think you’re doing, Lestrange?” Amycus demanded, raising his wand to her.

With a flick of her wand, Ophelia sent him tumbling backwards, unconscious. Alecto, still confused, followed in her brother’s wake before she could defend herself.

It was the first time Fred and George had seen her in action. And they were stunned by the beautiful, dangerous, powerful woman standing before them.

“Get their wands!” she called over her shoulder to the Order.

“Miss Lestrange!” McGonagall absorbed the sight of her, wide-eyed, as Fred and George took their places beside her. The crowd was rippling with intense murmurs.

Ophelia gave her a sad smile. “Sorry for that, Professor. But the world needs Minerva McGonagall far more than it needs Ophelia Lestrange.”

“That was really stupid, O!” George chastised.

She waved him off. “We don’t have much time. The Dark Lord is on his way.”

Suddenly, Harry fell to his knees, clutching at his scar. The enchanted ceiling above grew dark with storm clouds, and a low hum seemed to permeate through the massive room. All of the torches lining the walls suddenly blew out.

Then, one of the first years screamed, high and shrill, clapping her hands to her ears. And then another. And another. And another.

And then the voice sounded, and Ophelia’s blood ran cold.

“ _I know that many of you will want to fight. Some of you may think that to fight is wise.”_

Fred and George took her hands, gripping them tightly. They were shaking, she realized. This was the first time they’d ever heard his voice.

“ _But this is folly_ ,” the Dark Lord continued, “ _Give me Harry Potter. Do this, and none will be harmed._ ”

All eyes fell to Harry.

“ _Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave Hogwarts untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have one hour.”_

With that, the voices faded, the torches re-lit, and the everyone inside Hogwarts found themselves faced with a horrible ultimatum. Ophelia looked up at her lovers to find their faces colorless with horror. She clutched their hands a little tighter, and they met her gaze.

“It’s only a sound, my loves,” she reassured them in a whisper, “He’s not here, I promise.”

“What are you waiting for?” Pansy Parkinson suddenly shouted, “Someone grab him!”

Immediately, Ginny ran to Harry’s side, clutching at his arm. Ophelia joined her, followed by Fred and George, Ron and Hermione. They formed a phalanx around him, wands brandished.

Just then, Argus Filch came jogging into the hall, screaming, “Students out of bed!! Students in the corridors!”

“They are _supposed_ to be out of bed, you blithering idiot!!” McGonagall scolded, “But as it happens, Mr. Filch, your arrival is most opportune. If you would please, escort Miss Parkinson and the rest of Slytherin house from the Hall.”

He stammered. “And where exactly is it I’ll be escorting them, ma’am?”

With a withering glance towards the Slytherins, she replied, “The dungeons would do.”

Even Ophelia, who all but bled silver and green, couldn’t help but join in the applause. She caught sight of Draco, as he was forced from the room by the throng. Their eyes met for a long moment. He looked so fearful. But she had no more room for sympathy in her heart, not for him.

As they Slytherins filed out of the room, McGonagall ordered Neville and Professor Sprout to escort all underage students from the castle, through Ariana’s tunnel in the Room of Requirement. The Great Hall suddenly became a flurry of panicked people, and loud, fearful voices.

Ophelia turned to her lovers, placing a hand on each of their cheeks. “I need to speak with McGonagall,” she told them, “Go on and help the Order set up enchantments. I’ll find you.”

“ _No_ ,” they responded simultaneously, each reaching up to clasp at the hand resting on their cheeks.

Fred argued, “If you think we’re ever letting you out of our sight again—”

“ _Go_ ,” she urged, standing on her tiptoes to kiss them back and forth, twice each. “I’ll find you, I swear.”

Reluctantly, they turned, and joined the throng as it worked its way towards the massive, double-doors. Fred was shouting comical, chaotic orders at all the kids, trying to wade his way through the waist-high crowd. Vintage Fred. Like the year of the Triwizard Tournament.

When Ophelia finally tore her gaze away, she saw that McGonagall was standing beside her. Her brow seemed to knit together slightly, as she looked her former student up and down. Her gaze lingered on the tattoos carved into her skin, the robes. On the shock of silver-white hair hanging down the side of her face.

“My dear girl,” she implored sadly, “What have they done to you?”

“It’s a story for another day, Professor,” Ophelia hurriedly replied, leading her out of the Great Hall. “We’ve got more time than I thought, so we need to make the most of it while we can. The Death Eaters are coordinating in the Shrieking Shack.”

“Is it safe for the students to escape through Hogsmeade?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, as they stepped out into the stone courtyard, “They don’t know about the tunnel to Aberforth’s, and they won’t linger in Hogsmeade for long, now. Because of the protective enchantments we already have in place, they’ll have no choice but to attack on foot.”

McGonagall smirked. “Well, we’ll be able to hold them off on foot for a while, as well.”

All around them, members of the Order were casting protective spells, wands pointed skyward.

“ _Protego Maxima_.”

“ _Fianto Duri.”_

_“Salvio Hexia.”_

“ _Protego Diabolica_.”

Slowly but surely, a great web of enchantments began to work its way over the castle, individual spells knitting together to form a massive, impenetrable dome.

Ophelia pointed to the stone bridge stretching out before them. “We’ll need to blow both bridges,” she explained, “If I had to guess, they intend to send the Death Eaters in this way, and have the Snatchers come in through the back. The Dark Lord will likely remain in the Forbidden Forest until the castle has been sacked. That’s what I would do. And he’ll keep a few of his inner circle out there with him: Bellatrix, Rodolphus, my father, the Malfoys—”

McGonagall nodded. “And the snake.”

“Precisely,” Ophelia confirmed, “He would have me out there, too. But by now, he knows I’ve betrayed him.”

After a long pause, McGonagall finally asked, “How long? How long have you been…?”

“Since he came back,” she revealed. “I’ve been doing this since he came back.”

She seemed stunned, as though replaying memories of the time they shared at Hogwarts, trying to look for signs. Any scrap of evidence that she’d been _good_ , all along.

“I wish I _were_ out there.” Ophelia shook her head bitterly, running a hand through her hair, “I’d bury my blade in his back, and he would never see it coming.”

McGonagall gave her a sad smile. “Well, I for one, am glad you’re in here.”

Ophelia felt a warm hand on her forearm, and to her complete shock, found that Molly Weasley was standing beside her. “This is where you belong, my dear,” she proudly reassured her, “In here, with your family.”

If it weren’t for the anxiety setting each of her veins alight, Ophelia may have wept. Instead, she tugged Mrs. Weasley into a tight embrace, feeling her shake in her grasp.

“I need to go,” she announced to the pair, “I told the twins I’d find them.”

Molly nodded. “They went up to the Astronomy Tower.”

“Thank you.” She pressed a quick kiss to the older woman’s cheek, before sprinting for the castle doors.

“Madame Lestrange!” McGonagall called after her.

She skidded to an abrupt halt, looking over her shoulder.

With a wholly uncharacteristic grin, she shouted, “What have I told you about sneaking around this castle with those Weasely twins?”

Ophelia laughed genuinely. “I’m sorry, Professor! It won’t happen again!”

With that, she took off towards the Astronomy Tower, leaving a puzzled Molly Weasley in her wake. As she disappeared back into the castle, she could just hear McGonagall ask, “ _Do you know about the_ stunt _your son pulled, the day they left this school_?”

Ophelia sprinted up the spiral staircase, sliding to an abrupt halt when she caught sight of them. They were leaning against the ramparts, wands drawn. She could see their eyes were turned upwards, watching the web of protective spells swirl and writhe overhead.

She had never seen them so worn-down. They were thin and tired-looking, their hair longer than she’d ever seen it, and even more unkempt than usual. Months on the road, running and hiding seemed to have stretched them thin, like butter scraped over too much bread by a dull, unrelenting knife. With a pang of guilt, she realized that she herself had never looked so noble. Never lived so well, eaten so lavishly, or been so finely clothed. She had been living the epitome of pure-blooded nobility, at the beck and call of the Dark Lord, while the men she loved above all else were fighting tooth and nail to survive in an era of darkness and fear. An era that she’d helped to dawn.

They’d argue with her, of course. They’d tell her that they’d much rather scrape a living by in the ruins of homes, in wild forests and pub floors than endure the tortures she’d been put through. They’d tell her they were better off than she was. But she didn’t believe that. In her heart of hearts, she knew they had every right to resent her.

George spoke, then, his voice soft and uncertain. “You alright, Freddie?”

Fred turned to his brother, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. You?”

“Yeah,” George nodded courage seeming to bolster. “Me too.”

She stepped out onto the balcony, announcing her presence by giving each of their ponytails a gentle tug. “You look just like your brother,” she said with a soft smile.

“Oh, well done, Ophelia,” George glanced over his shoulder at her, before looking to Fred. “Novel observation, that.”

Fred nodded. “Yeah, she’s always had a keen eye, though, hasn’t she?”

“I meant _Bill_!” she laughed, “You look like _Bill_!”

“I thought you said we’re not as pretty as Bill,” Fred needled.

“Don’t worry, my darlings,” she reassured, “You’re not.”

They laughed, making space for her between them. They each tossed an arm around her shoulder and planted a kiss on her temple.

“I feel like we ask this every time, but—”

“—where’ve you been?”

She shrugged. “Malfoy Manor. Running out on as many raids as possible, so I can try and save people.”

“Hey, did you ever listen to Potter Watch?” Fred asked.

“Yes!!” she gasped, turning to face them, “Yes, I heard you!”

They exchanged wide smiles.

“Ah, we knew you would,” George said proudly.

“Hemlock was bloody brilliant,” she lauded, placing a hand on each of their chests, “Whose idea was that?”

George nodded towards his brother. “That was all Rodent.”

Fred shook his head in dismay. “ _Rodent_. Of all the bloody offensive—”

“You _liars_!” she laughed, punching them both in the shoulder, “That was Neville’s idea, how dare you take credit? You sneaky little— Oh! Oh my god! Oh, I can’t believe you missed it—”

“ _Missed what_?” they asked, matching her laughter in anticipation.

“I took the most _vicious_ stunning spell of my entire life,” she giggled, “From _Ron_!”

“ _You what_?”

“He rather _did_ me, you should’ve seen it! Honestly!”

Fred was positively cackling with delight. “How? _Why_?”

“The night of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, I bailed the little _Golden Trio_ out of a rather tight spot with Dolohov and Rowle,” she explained, “But I needed one of them to stun me, afterwards, so as not to blow my cover.”

“I bet Ron was all too happy to oblige you there!” George laughed.

“He slammed me into a stone wall and shattered seven of my ribs!”

“What a _knob_!” George exclaimed, shaking his head.

Fred took her in his arms, murmuring a condescending, “It’s alright now, you poor, _poor_ little dear, Ickle Ronnykins can’t hurt you anymore!”

She laughed into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.

George joined the embrace, gently shushing her. “Yeah, we’ll keep you safe from that _nasty_ little boy, won’t we, Freddie?”

“Oh, get stuffed, the both of you!”

For a moment, the three of them forgot entirely where they were, and what they were doing. All they could feel was the warmth between them. The love.

“What did you do, to make your mum come around?” Ophelia asked softly.

George laughed knowingly. “Fuck all.”

“That was all you, darling.”

She looked between them in confusion. “What? What does that mean?”

“Your Patronus.”

“We were at The Burrow, when you sent that warning.”

“The night before Bill and Fleur’s.”

“Everyone saw it.”

The realization dawned on her at once. “She’d never… She’d never seen my Patronus, before.”

_“Right in once.”_

“She… She didn’t know.”

Fred nodded. “Yeah, I reckon that was what finally got through to her.”

“Well, I suppose she imagines I’m going to die tonight, anyway, so it won’t really matter,” she added darkly. “Tolerate it for a few hours, and then Voldemort will solve the problem for her.”

The twins grimaced at the suggestion, but neither could muster the will to refute it.

“What did you do, after the wedding?” Ophelia asked.

“Mmm,” George sighed, stepping back to lean against the ramparts again. He took her hand, rubbing her tattooed fingers between his freckled ones. “When the Death Eaters started Apparating in, we just scarpered.”

“We had some bags packed already, back at the shop—”

“—’Cause, you know,” George added sheepishly, “We do _occasionally_ listen to you, believe it or not.”

She smiled, shaking her head.

“But it wasn’t much,” Fred said.

“So, we boarded the windows, hexed the place up, and just… Left.”

“Couldn’t have been there more than 15 minutes, all told, and then we were off. Pub floors, Lee’s place—”

“—Auntie Muriel’s,” George grimaced, “Tent in a forest.”

Ophelia nodded. “I must have just missed you. As soon as I left Harry, Ron, and Hermione, I went straight to yours. And by then it was already boarded up.” The memory made her sick, how she pounded her fists against the sealed door until she could feel her ribs splintering in her chest. The fear of that moment, the abject horror.

She looked up into their faces. They were smiling softly, despite their fear and exhaustion; and there was a kind of warmth and contentment in their hazel eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” she whispered, falling back into their arms.

They wrapped her between them, each pressing a kiss to whatever part of her they could reach.

“You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been,” she murmured.

“ _Yeah_ ,” they replied in soft unison, “ _We do_.”

With a sigh, she stepped back, and turned to rest her elbows on the stone ramparts. Eyes skyward, she watched as the crackling silver web of enchantments swirled overhead.

“”S a bit weird, isn’t it?” Fred remarked, “Being back here.”

George nodded. “Yeah. Never thought it would happen.”

“Ah, you should’ve seen the look on Filch’s face when caught sight of us, O,” Fred giggled, “Like he didn’t know if he was having a nightmare or not.”

George laughed appreciatively. “Grumpy old bastard.”

“Never any sense of humor, eh?”

“Yeah, he’s always sort of seemed the type of bloke who’s never heard the phrase ‘you’re fine’—”

Fred nodded. “From a healer.”

“Stop,” she giggled, swatting at them lightly.

She’d missed this so much. More than she’d ever be able to articulate, not with all the poetry or prose in the world. All her life, she’d been homesick for something she’d never had. Love and laughter and easy comfort, a sense that she was safe and seen and held. And then she met the twins, and suddenly, she felt safe and seen and held. They were the home she’d been looking for. And to be apart from them again, for such a long time… Crushing. Devastatingly so. But it didn’t matter, anymore, because they were _there_. With her. And nothing else mattered, because as long as they were together, everything was going to be alright.

As if they could sense her strange mood, they each put an arm around her, moving in close so their hips pressed against hers.

“It’s so quiet,” she remarked.

“Yeah,” Fred murmured, “Bit spooky, actually.”

George turned to look at her. “Ophelia?”

She met his gaze, for a moment stunned by how handsome he looked in the eerie light.

“Are we gonna survive this?” he asked, voice just barely shaking. It was an earnest question, softly spoken and guardedly vulnerable.

She shook her head, placing a hand on his cheek. Her answer was honest, but terrifying to hear. “I don’t know, my love.”

He nodded, understanding but unsatisfied.

“But I want you to listen to me, now,” she urged, looking between them, “The both of you. If something happens to us—”

“It won’t,” Fred interjected.

She soldiered on, taking a gentle fistful of his lapel. “ _But if it does_. Then I want you to know that to die fighting by your side… The pleasure,” she closed her eyes, swallowed hard, “The _privilege_ … Would be mine.”

George’s gaze flitted down to her lips, and it was a moment too long before he was kissing her. His hand slid beneath her hair, wrapping around the side of her neck. He kissed her like she was going to leave him again. There was a soft sound as they parted, and her breath hitched in her throat as he found her lips again, drawing her back in before it could be over. He craved her sharp little sighs, and the feel of her tongue against his lips. He craved her need, and her guarded fragility, and the way her long-nailed fingers were combing up into his hair.

“Hey,” Fred coaxed in a heady voice, “Come here.”

He took her by the chin, steering her away from his brother. She fell into him in a daze, murmuring some quiet, wordless plea into his mouth. She was soft in his arms, but that softness seemed so strangely punctuated by too many bones, in too many places. She kissed him as if in a fever, her lips slow and gentle and wanting; fretful as the fingers that clung to his cheek. His hand slid down her waist, and he backed her up against the stone ramparts. Her hipbone jutted out sharply beneath his palm, and suddenly, he was filled with a kind of tender concern for her, all skin and bone. Too small, too slight. All at once, he found himself afraid that this delicate, fragile person would wear away under his touch and disappear entirely.

An explosion sounded in the distance, shaking the stone beneath them. The threat of their world’s destruction. A blade, pointed at the heart of all they loved.

Ophelia looked between her lovers, eyes wide with fear.

Another explosion rocked the tower. Nearer, this time. And then, high above, the web of silver enchantments began to dissolve away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the archive warnings before proceeding to the next chapter


	16. Witches at Black Masses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I am warning you right now.

Hands clasped, Ophelia and Fred fought back to back. Percy was nearby, helping them hold the Great Hall. It was a frenzied, violent flurry. Spells whizzed past their heads, debris crashed and cascaded around them. Everything- every move she made, every step she took, every flick of her wand- was instinctive. She didn’t think; she just reacted. Stimulus, response, stimulus, response- she existed in a raw, heightened state the likes of which she had never experienced. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

“There she is, the traitor!”

“KILL THEM!”

They were radiant, defeating anyone who crossed them. It was for that reason that Ophelia was so shocked when a beam of white light sliced across her face. Her head snapped backwards, and she fell. It felt as though someone had dragged a hot wire from her chin, up to her left eye. Everything went silent. She saw the briefest flash of blackness, the open mouth of a snake. And then she was back, gazing up at the ceiling of the Great Hall.

Winded, she tried to scramble to her feet. She brought a hand to her cheek. Warm and wet. Darkness crept into the corners of her vision. The room began to tilt. There was a familiar noise, Fred was tugging at her hand, the rubble beneath her cut into her legs, _what’s happening? Am I dying_?

Fred was speaking, she was almost certain of that. But with the way her ears were ringing, he sounded so far away.

_The tattoos_ , she realized vaguely. _The protections._ _I won’t get another one of those_.

“OPHELIA!” It was George. Off in the corner, hunkered down behind a fallen column, he beckoned to her frantically. “Fred, send her!”

“Go to Georgie!” he commanded, dragging her to her feet and shoving her out into the gulf between them. For an instant, she turned, and their eyes met. An intense longing welled up within her; a desire to smother him in an embrace.

“No,” she argued weakly. She was trying to grab for his hand again, but her fingers were slick with her own blood. “No, I don’t want to!”

“Go!” he shouted, ducking to dodge a jet of green light. “God dammit, Ophelia, _GO_!”

Without another thought, Ophelia Lestrange turned and ran into the arms of George Weasley.

“Let me see!” he commanded, taking her face in his hands, “Blimey, that should’ve killed you!”

“The— It was— All those b-brands they put on me,” she murmured, voice quavering as she wiped the blood from her face with shaking fingers. George took hold of her billowing sleeve, bunching it up and pressing it to the wound. The curse had left a jagged slice all the way up the side of her face, from her chin, up to the outer edge of her left eye. It ran through the corner of her lips, and the thick, metallic taste of her own blood stuck in the back of her throat.

George’s face was pale with fear, streaked with blood and dirt. His ponytail had long since come undone, hair whipping around his face in wild waves. She had the odd, fleeting thought that she should’ve braided it for him. For the both of them. _That nice, big hearth is around here_ _somewhere_ , she realized, eyes wandering across the rubble, _we’ll find where it’s gone, get Freddie, and just sit down for a while._

“Are you alright?” George demanded, voice hoarse from overuse.

It snapped her back to reality, the pain and fear rolling over her again in a glassy wave.

He shook her by the shoulders. “Ophelia!”

_Focus, god damn you. Focus_.

“Yes,” she announced frantically, “ _No_! We have to get back to Fred!”

“Percy’s got him, he’ll be right! You’re not going back out there until you’re steady again!”

An explosion sounded from beside them, and they whipped around just in time to see Percy disarm Pius Thicknesse.

“Hello, Minister!” he bellowed, as Thicknesse began the horrifying process of transforming into a sea urchin, “Did I mention I’m resigning?”

Fred laughed heartily, sending another stunning spell whipping through the air towards Yaxley. “You’re _joking_ , Perce!”

The spell found its mark easily, and uncle Corban collapsed to the rubble, defeated.

“You’re actually _joking_! I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were—”

The air exploded. In that fragment of a moment, when danger seemed temporarily at bay, the world was rent apart. Through the cloud of fire and dust, George and Ophelia could hear the screams and cries of their companions, without a hope of knowing what had happened to them. They coughed, clutching at one another, pressing their eyes shut.

And then the world resolved itself into pain and semi-darkness, and they saw. The wall of the castle had been blasted open, exposing the battle to the biting, nighttime cold. Percy was kneeling, shaking his brother. And there was Fred, sprawled out on the ground. His eyes stared without seeing, the ghost of his last laugh still etched upon his face.

The cry that tore from Ophelia’s chest expressed agony of a kind neither flame nor curse could inflict. Beside her, she could hear George’s breathless, panicked screams.

“No—no—no—! Fred, _NO_!”

With an upward glance, she set eyes on the man responsible.

It was Rodolphus. And he was staring into her eyes, wearing the look of a man who’d taken the first bite of a lavish feast to find that he was ravenous for more. The malice in his eyes should’ve made her blood run cold. Instead, it set her alight. Her vision narrowed to a pinhole. Nothing else mattered but making him _hurt_.

In an automatic, well-practiced move, she slipped the dagger from its sheath on her thigh, and flung it towards her uncle.

He tried to deflect it with magic, but it was to no avail. The blade found its mark, sinking deep into his thigh. He cried out in shock, clutching at the wound.

It was then that she leapt for him.

“ _CRUCIO!!!!”_

Rodolphus fell to his knees on the rubble, wailing in inhuman agony.

“Ophelia, DON’T!”

“ _CRUCIO!!!!”_ she screamed again, twisting her wand as though it were itself a knife in a wound. His cries intensified, eyes bulging in their sockets.

“ _WHAT HAVE YOU DONE_!?” she shrieked, bringing her foot down hard on his throat and pinning him to the ground. She lobbed curse after curse at him. “ _Reducto! Confringo!! CRUCIO!!”_

Rodolphus’ face twisted with pain and horror, hands like claws scrabbling at her boot. She was distantly aware of George tugging at her arm.

“ _SECTUMSEMPRA!!!”_

A massive, deep laceration sliced across his midsection, blood spurting from the wound. He fell oddly silent, then, looking down at what she’d done to him. He dipped his fingers into the blood, examining them with a kind of detached horror. Ophelia relished the sight. It filled her chest with power and satisfaction. She did it again, and another wound appeared, forming a bloody X across his chest. Her satisfaction only deepened.

His agony fueled her. She wanted to feel his bones splinter in her fists, wanted to flay him alive. She wanted to taste blood.

“Love, _stop_!!” George sobbed, pulling at her wrist, “ _Please_!”

And then, strangely, an image rose in her mind. Fred, long-haired and careless and healthy, bickering with Mischief as he perched indignantly on the branch of a white-blossomed tree in late spring. Just a skinny boy, with too much energy.

George was screaming and screaming, but the sound was distant, as though he were underwater. She looked down at him, kneeling on the ground between her and Fred. He had his hand extended out to her, and oddly, the sight of his splayed, shaking fingers seemed so suddenly foreign. The expression on his face was unlike any she’d ever seen. Desperate, imploring. Terrified. It made her insides twist, and she was momentarily afraid she’d be sick. Behind him, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Percy were watching her in awe and horror. As her eyes traveled across the Hall, she noticed that more people had stopped to watch, too.

Her face was so hot. She blinked in a daze, wiping the mixture of blood and tears from her eyes.

_What am I doing_?

The image of Fred on the shore of the Black Lake was fading, but not before she heard him insist to the raven that his name wasn’t Orange.

Rodolphus squirmed beneath her foot, uninjured leg kicking weakly.

“Do it,” he taunted raggedly, teeth coated in blood, “ _Trouillarde_.”

Her arm moved automatically. Her voice sounded, it seemed, through no will of her own.

“ _Avada Kedavra.”_

There was a flash of green light. A momentary scream, cut short. She watched the light in his eyes go dull. And then, merciful silence.

George yanked her to the ground beside him, and she fell heavily. She didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see him. But she had to.

His pale face was still wearing a half-smile, hazel eyes staring vacantly towards the ceiling. George threw an arm around her shoulders, holding her so tightly she was genuinely afraid he’d hurt her. He was heaving short, desperate sobs, staring down at his reflection. There they were, kneeling on the rubble beside the corpse of their lover. Dust settling, the shock of what she’d just done fading away in the minds of their companions as they realized the brutal finality of what had just happened.

“I—” she stammered, vision blurring with hot, angry tears, “I never finished counting!”

George squeezed her tighter. “Ophelia…”

One moment, he’d been _there_ with them, alive and laughing, and the next, he was entirely gone. There, and then gone. Like blowing out a candle. There, and then gone. She placed a hand on his still-warm cheek, shaking him lightly.

“Do you hear me?” she demanded of him, wiping away tears, “I never finished counting! _You stop this, right now!”_

George’s voice was growing more desperate. “Wh-what?”

There, and then gone.

“ _NO_ , _I NEVER FINISHED COUNTING_!!” She bent forward, pressing her cheek to his chest. It wasn’t moving. No heartbeat, no breaths. She wailed, blood and tears soaking into his shirt.

He’d been so close. Why had she left him? What had been so important that she left him there alone?

George placed a hand on her back, slipping the other into Fred’s and holding it tightly. His fingers remained slack, his arm hanging heavily from his brother’s grip. Both of their hands were still wet with Ophelia’s blood.

Their friends looked on in sadness and horror. Hermione and Ron clung to one another, unable to bring themselves any closer. Half of Harry’s face was torn up, and he looked stunned, as though he’d only just realized some horrible truth. Percy gaped, pale faced, eyes silently welling up with tears.

Behind them, they heard Mrs. Weasley’s wail echo through the hall, “ _MY BOY!!!”_

She skidded to the ground beside them, and George had the presence of mind to tear the sobbing Ophelia out of the way. He had the strange realization that his mother may try to hurt her.

Finally, Ron found the strength to kneel beside his brother’s body. While he and Molly mourned and screamed, George and Ophelia knelt on the rubble and clung to one another. The sadness shared between them was immeasurable. Incommunicable, yet somehow understood.

The weight of the loss. The immediacy of it.

“What are we supposed to _do_ now?” George begged softly, “Ophelia, what do we _do_? What do we do? What do we do? _What do we_ —"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the worst it gets. I promise. That's the saddest thing ever, ever, ever.


	17. Now In Darkness, World Stops Turning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neville Longbottom is a king

The Death Eaters retreated, but George and Ophelia were only distantly aware of it. Harry, Ron, and Hermione disappeared. Arthur, Molly, Percy, and Ginny sat in a silent heap nearby, staring vacantly at nothing in particular. George found a blanket and laid it out on a flat stretch of unbroken floor. Ophelia helped him gently lift Fred’s body onto it, setting him down carefully and lovingly. It was something that could’ve been accomplished much quicker and easier by magic, but they needed to touch him. They needed to hold him in their arms, lend him some of their warmth. Even as his limbs were beginning to turn cold. With delicate fingertips, Ophelia closed his hazel eyes.

All around them, their compatriots were taking inventory. Who was injured? Who was missing? Who was dead? They spoke in frightened whispers, faces defeated and subdued.

Silently, Ophelia took her place beside Fred, gently lifting his head into her lap. George sat next to her, taking his brother’s hand once more, pressing his cold knuckles against his lips. She ran her long, black-lacquered nails through his wild hair, lovingly working through all of the knots and tangles. With his eyes closed, and the faint smile still lingering on his lips, she could almost believe that he was alive. He was just comfortable and content, slipping towards sleep at the rhythmic touch of her fingers. Any moment, now, he’d break the tension. He’d open his eyes, he’d smile and kiss her, or maybe he’d demand she sing _Cherry-Colored Funk_ , because honestly, Ophelia, what was the point of buying you that record if you weren’t going to sing it for me? Or maybe he’d make some cheeky remark about how loving her is like loving the dead.

_Loving the dead._

Together, Ophelia Lestrange and George Weasley wept. They had lost all interest in the Dark Lord, in the Order of the Phoenix, in Muggle rock and roll music, in carefully curated and lovingly handcrafted jokes, in how a television works, or the now-inevitable death of Harry Potter. They were blinded by sorrow. The only thing they could see was Fred’s face, gradually beginning to pale.

“ _He’s here_!” someone shouted, “ _You-Know-Who!”_

A chorus of panicked voices rose from the packed hall. Ophelia raised her bloodied and tear-streaked face towards her lover, still clutching Fred’s head in her lap. Still combing her fingers covetously through his hair. George looked around, saw the crowd beginning to trickle out into the courtyard.

“We should go,” he said, extending a hand to her.

She shook her head in listless defiance. “No.”

A part of her was worried that, if she let go of Fred, she’d be lost and adrift forever. Like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to sanity.

“We need to, love,” George coaxed.

“His face looks different, already.”

George pressed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I know it does. Come on, Ophelia.”

She couldn’t fight him. Reluctantly, she bent to press one more kiss on Fred’s forehead before gently laying him back down on the blanket. George pulled her to her feet, forcing her to look away. Hand-in-hand, they joined the throng, and filed out into the courtyard.

The scene that awaited them there was just as horrifying as she’d expected. Voldemort, flanked by his remaining Death Eaters, was striding proudly across the bridge. Nagini slithered along beside him. And there, right in the middle, was Hagrid. Bound in chains, led by Yaxley and McNair. In his arms, he cradled the lifeless body of Harry Potter.

Beside them, Ginny’s breath hitched. “Dad?” she asked weakly, “Who is that?”

Arthur shook his head in disbelief. Most of the crowd was lingering by the door, but Ophelia, Hermione, and the Weasleys stepped forward.

“Who’s that Hagrid’s carrying?” Ginny insisted, voice rising to a fever pitch.

“Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord shouted, “Is _DEAD_!”

The crowd murmured in in horrified disbelief, but it was nearly inaudible beneath Ginny’s wail.

“NO!” Wand raised, she charged for the enemy line, but Arthur caught her by the arm.

“Silence!” the Dark Lord commanded, sending a shower of red sparks skipping across the cobblestoned at her feet. “Stupid girl!”

George wrapped his arm around Ophelia, holding her close. Clinging to her in disbelief. But she was numb. Her will to fight had paled with Fred’s face.

“Harry Potter,” he sneered, “Is _dead_. Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him! From this day forth, you put your faith in me.”

Ophelia scanned the crowd, picking out faces. She saw Lucius and Narcissa, near the front. Bellatrix, inching towards the Dark Lord, all too ready to abandon the memory of her husband. And there was her father, right in the middle, towering over the rest of them. She could see him searching for her, cold fury in his eyes. He had tears on his cheeks.

Voldemort turned to address his Death Eaters, flinging his arms wide.

“ _Harry Potter is dead_!” he cried triumphantly.

They laughed. A cold, satisfied sound. Bellatrix’s distinctive cackle rose above them.

“And now is the time to declare yourself!” he announced, rounding on the crowd once more. “Come forward and join us, or die!”

His words rung in the still and silent morning, echoing off the stone arches. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Until Lucius Malfoy’s voice rung out.

“Draco!” It was a harsh, stage whisper.

Everyone turned, scanning the crowd for him. Ophelia craned her neck back, finally catching sight of him. He was lingering in the back, platinum hair disheveled, 600-Galleon suit torn and filthy. His eyes shifted uncomfortably, and she wondered, briefly, if she were about to see her cousin cry.

“Draco,” Narcissa said softly, beckoning to him, “Come, now.”

“Don’t do it,” Ophelia whispered, shaking her head. “Don’t you fucking do it.”

After a moment of weak deliberation, Draco began to make his way through the crowd. His eyes were downcast. He looked reluctant. Ashamed. And she was glad of it.

“Coward,” she murmured venomously.

George whipped around to look at her.

“Coward!” she repeated, a little louder.

“Hey, stop it,” he urged, tugging sharply at her arm.

Draco was stepping forward, out of the crowd, crossing the wide, open space between the Order and the Death Eaters. And it was in that moment that Ophelia found her will to fight once more.

She rent her arm from George’s grip. “ _Coward!!”_

Scrambling out into the gulf, she bent down and picked up a piece of rubble the size of a fist, hurling it at her cousin.

Both halves of the crowd gasped as it hit him squarely in the back of the head, causing him to stumble. A few Death Eaters laughed. He looked back, eyes swimming with tears, and his gaze fell to her. She watched as the remaining light in his face seemed to instantly extinguish. He gave her a pleading look, gathering his brow.

She was unmoved. Furious, she leapt forward and screamed, “ _YOU FUCKING COWARD_!”

Just as she bent to pick up another rock, Bellatrix sent a jet of green light whipping towards her. George leapt forward, expertly deflecting it, before taking her by the arm and dragging her backwards.

“Ah!” the Dark Lord leered at her, beginning to pace back and forth, “ _There_ ’ _s_ my beautiful girl! I was wondering where you’d gone, Ophelia! You seem to be missing one of your little rats.”

Molly whimpered, clapping a hand over her mouth. She felt George’s knees weaken as he held her. She did not want to imagine what his face looked like.

“Tell me,” he sneered, “Did our dearest Freddie die well?”

An injured moan tore raggedly from George’s throat. It awakened something fierce and protective in her, shredding her heart to pieces.

What Ophelia did then was impulsive. Stupid. Careless. But the cruelty of his remark was too great.

“Better than _Rodolphus_!” She sprang forward, and with a strong-armed wave of her wand, sent a red-hot _Cruciatus_ curse crackling through the space between them.

The blast hit him in the shoulder, only for a fraction of a second. Even still, he was forced to take a steadying step backwards.

“ _Expelliarimus_!”

Her wand went flew her grip, spinning back and landing somewhere in the crowd behind her. It had wrenched her fingers in the process, and she clutched her hand to her chest.

Voldemort’s smile had turned to a scowl, and he quickened his pacing. Her father shrank back into the crowd, avoiding the gazes of his compatriots.

“You filthy little blood-traitor!” her aunt spat, striding forward, wand drawn. “ _Did you kill my husband_?”

“Now, now, Bella,” the Dark Lord admonished, “She will suffer for this soon enough. And after all, look at the good it’s done!” He turned to his Death Eaters again, arms wide.

They laughed, jeering and cursing her name.

And then he rounded on her again, his vivid red eyes boring into her very soul. She could sense his Legilimency, nonverbal and deadly. That familiar, blunt blade, forcing its way back between her eyes. For the first time, she made no effort to repel it.

 _I want you to know, Tom_ , she told him. _Behold the breadth of my deception and despair. Understand, in your heart, that you have been betrayed._

He withdrew quite suddenly, and for the first time, Ophelia saw a flicker of something like fear cross his features.

“You will die,” he sneered, raising his wand to her, “Along with the rest of them.”

Behind her, a chorus of gasps and whispers rose from the crowd. She turned to see Neville limping up beside her. He was, for some mad reason, clutching the Sorting Hat. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and for a moment, their eyes met. And then George took her by the hand and dragged yet backwards yet again. Bill took her other arm, holding her between them.

“Don’t do another stupid thing like that,” he whispered harshly in her ear, “Do you want George to watch you both die today?”

“I won’t,” she weakly replied, refusing to look at him.

“ _Ophelia_.”

She rent her arm from his grip. “I won’t!”

Voldemort was cackling, that high, thin, cold sound. “Well, I must say, I had hoped for better,” he remarked, looking Neville up and down, “And who might you be, young man?”

“Neville Longbottom,” he said softly.

Bellatrix all but shrieked with laughter.

“You’re a Pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” he condescended, “You show spirit and courage, and you come of noble stock. I’m sure we can find a place for you in our ranks.”

“I’d like to say something,” he interrupted.

A bolt of fury crackled through Voldemort’s features, and he resumed his pacing. “Well, Neville, I’m sure we’d all be very interested in hearing what you have to say.”

Neville took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter that Harry’s dead.”

“Stand down, Neville!” someone shouted.

“No!” he insisted, turning to face the crowd of his compatriots. “People die every day! Friends… Family…”

George tightened his grip on Ophelia, tugging her a little closer.

“Yeah,” Neville exhaled, “We lost Harry tonight. But he’s still with us.” He put a hand on his chest. “In _here_. So’s Fred. Remus. Tonks. All of them. They didn’t die in vain.”

Ophelia’s head fell against George’s shoulder, fresh tears beginning to stream down her face once more.

Something in Neville’s expression hardened, then, and he rounded on Voldemort. “But you will!”

The Dark Lord began to laugh, clapping his hands so patronizingly. But Neville did not relent.

“’Cause you’re wrong!” he shouted, “Harry’s heart _did_ beat for us! _For all of us!_ ”

And then many things happened in the same moment. Neville reached into the Sorting Hat, and from it, withdrew the Sword of Gryffindor. The blade shone silver, ringing as he raised it high. Someone screamed. And then Ophelia noticed that Hagrid seemed to have dropped Harry. But then Harry stood. He stood, and he raised his wand, and the look on Voldemort’s face as he realized what had happened was no small flicker of fear. It was terror; unbridled, and overwhelming for him.

Then came the pounding of hooves and the twang of bows, and sheets of arrows came raining down amongst the Death Eaters. They broke ranks, scattering like so many ants. Voldemort’s Giants charged forth through the empty space, seeming to shake the very foundations of the earth as they stampeded towards the castle.

George drew his wand. The people behind them had retrieved Ophelia’s wand, and passed back up through the crowd. Someone pressed it into her hand, and she raised it high. All around them, their friends were doing the same. And then, through the chaos, Ophelia locked eyes with her father. He was charging across the battlefield, wild-eyed and furious, focused singularly on her.

The thought crashed over her in a wave of panic-driven madness, and she shrieked, _“We have to get back to Freddie_!” She turned, and sprinted for the castle. George could only follow desperately in her wake.

She skidded to the stone floor beside Fred, murmuring his name over and over until the sounds lost all meaning. She cast one leg across his chest, kneeling over him and whipping around to face the inevitable onslaught. _Let them come_ , she thought, _let them try and tear me away from him._ But what she saw made her blood run cold. George was a few paces away, standing alone against Rabastan Lestrange.

“Out of my way, boy!” he roared, flicking his wand dangerously, “This doesn’t concern you! It’s _never_ concerned you!”

“You’re not gonna touch her!” George shouted in defiance. His wand arm was shaking.

“I won’t touch her.” Rabastan gave one of his deadly half smiles, baring a fang-like canine, and George blinked in shock and horror because all he could see in that face was _Ophelia_.

“H-how dare you,” he murmured oddly _. How dare you have poured so much of your poison into the woman I love._

With a strong-armed his wand, Rabastan sent a bolt of green light whipping through the air towards the pair. George responded with an imperceptibly fast parry and riposte, knocking his assailant off balance. It surprised even him, and he had to take a steadying step back to find his footing again.

His wand arm wasn’t shaking, anymore.

 _“I said leave her alone!”_ George commanded, beginning to advance.

Rabastan sent a desperate volley of spells in George’s direction. Ophelia cried out in fear, closed her eyes, pressed her face into Fred’s chest as beams of red, green, and white whizzed by overhead. But none of the curses found their mark. Her lover had dodged and deflected them all, and continued his advance with renewed strength.

George whipped his wand overhead, hitting his opponent square in the chest with a stinging jinx. Rabastan doubled over, clutching at his wound. The pain was startling, vivifying. Alien. It was then that _his_ wand arm began to shake. Panting and wide-eyed with shock, Rabastan Lestrange looked up at the man standing between him and his daughter. And, for the first time, a flicker of doubt passed behind his eyes.

It was then that a dark impulse occurred to George Weasley, equal parts terrifying and powerful.

“You _cursed_ her!” he screamed, sending another jinx crackling furiously towards Rabastan.

He deflected it, but only just.

_You know the incantation._

“ _Cursed_ her, sold her to Voldemort, and for what?” George roared, casting curse after curse. “FOR WHAT? FOR _THIS_?”

Rabastan stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet as he struggled to defend against the furious onslaught.

_He deserves it, just do it._

Fear was beginning to spread visibly across Rabastan’s face, and it only made George feel more powerful.

_Ophelia did it, you watched her do it. For Fred, for Fred, for Fred._

“Your own daughter! YOUR OWN—”

It was then that Rabastan began to scream. He dropped his wand as though it had burned him, and fell to his knees, clutching at his arm. George couldn’t make sense of it _. Did I hit him? I don’t think I hit him, I—_

He flinched oddly when he realized that the screaming was all around him, rising from sporadic points all across the hall. And then he realized that Ophelia was screaming, too.

It was only for a split second that the eyes of parent and child met. Rabastan Lestrange looked to his daughter in shock and disarming, vulnerable confusion. And then his expression melted away into one of horror and disbelief. For some nameless reason, Ophelia found herself frightened by it. No child should never have to see an expression like that on the face of their own father.

And then he Disapparated.

It wasn’t the ending George had wanted. It felt like a splinter had been jammed so suddenly into his mind, just to torture him. But there was no time to dwell on it, now. He fell to his knees beside Ophelia, his hands scrambling desperately across her shoulders, her chest, trying to ascertain what had happened, and it was a moment too long before he realized that Rookwood was one of the people screaming along with her. And Mulciber. And Crabbe, McNair, all of the remaining Death Eaters. They were all clutching at their forearms with panic in their eyes.

“What?” George demanded, looking around frantically, “What? What is it?”

It felt to her as though someone were flaying the skin from her arm with a hot knife. In a frenzy, she tore the silver gauntlet from her left arm and flung it away. And together, George and Ophelia watched as her Dark Mark turned red, and fell still.

They whipped around as cheers suddenly erupted from out in the courtyard, and all at once, they were surrounded by loud popping, and clouds of black smoke. The Death Eaters were fleeing.

“Come on!” George screamed, voice breaking as he forced her to her feet, “Get up, Ophelia, right now! Right now! Come on! _COME ON_!”

She stumbled along with him as he dragged her for the door, and together, they joined the throng of their compatriots as they folded in around Harry. She didn’t understand. George was screaming, crying, laughing, all at once. His hand clutched at hers so tightly that she was distantly afraid he’d break her fingers. It was only after she’d nearly tripped on someone’s outstretched leg that she realized who it had been.

Lord Voldemort. Pale, motionless, and dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a kind of dark synecdoche to this collision of characters. Two pairs of brothers who each loved the same woman. Two men who just lost their older brothers in the same battle, in virtually the same moment, squaring off over the woman they love and hate respectively. The protections that Rodolphus himself put on his niece that wind up saving her life when he tries to kill her. The knife that Bellatrix gave her proving to be her own husband's end. And remember what she told her, all the way back in the beginning? “They’re always prepared for your curses, but they never know what to do about a dagger flying towards them.”
> 
> I think it's good that George isn't a killer, no matter how annoyed he may have felt for a few seconds. He didn't need to be a killer. But Ophelia did.


	18. There is a Light That Never Goes Out

The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazed with life and light. News came pouring in from all across the country, as the morning wore on. Kingsley had been temporarily appointed Minister of Magic. All those under the influence of the _Imperius_ Curse had come back to themselves. The Death Eaters were fleeing, or else being captured, and all the innocent people in Azkaban were being released. No word, yet, on Rabastan.

McGonagall had replaced the long dining tables, but nobody was sitting according to House anymore. Everyone was mixed together: teachers and students, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves. Neville sat with a throng of admirers, the Sword of Gryffindor lying proudly on the table, beside his plate. Harry moved through the crowd, flocked by tearful admirers, bestowing his blessing and thanks on everyone he could reach. He looked tired. He looked strong.

But there was to be no fanfare for Ophelia Lestrange. No fanfare, and no joy. She stood alone, in her shredded and bloodied Death Eaters robes, and simply watched. Everywhere she looked, she saw families being reunited, new friendships kindled. Joy. Celebration. But no one spoke to her, no one offered any thanks or admiration. Not like Harry or Neville. The crowd parted around her like a stream over a rock. Diverted, but not halted. Everyone seemed to content to behave like she wasn't there at all. And that was fine by her.

George was sitting with his family, though she could see a kind of emptiness behind his smile. That selfish, Death Eater part of her wanted to take him by the hand and drag him away, so they could just be… _Together_. But there would be time for that later. Hours, days, or perhaps even years in which she could have him all to herself. For now, he needed his family, and his family needed him. It was something she would never fully understand. But she loved him, and so she left him.

Entirely alone, Ophelia Lestrange strode from the Great Hall. She thought, briefly, of once more taking up her silent vigil beside Fred. She knew where the bodies of their friends had been placed. Lupin, Tonks, Colin Creevey, Lavender Brown, and yes, even Freddie, had all been taken to a quiet classroom, far from the noise and celebration. But, somehow, it felt wrong to go to him without George. That’s the way it was meant to be: the three of them, all together.

Instead, she made her way for another classroom, off at the far end of the castle. And there, she sank to the ground beside the body of Tom Riddle, pulled her knees up to her chest, and waited.

She half-expected him to move, those skeletal fingers to twitching back to life, seeking the Elder Wand. Perhaps those blood-red eyes would open, and the cage of his chest would rise with a furious, rattling breath. Then again, perhaps none of those things would happen at all. Perhaps this truly was the shell of her enemy: utterly spent, and finally still. The only way to know was to watch, and wait.

_“Beautiful girl.”_

“Hey.”

The voice made her start in surprise, and she whipped around with her wand raised. But it was Neville, limping and bloody, still carrying the sword.

“Saw you wander off,” he said, sinking to the floor beside her with what seemed like great difficulty. He seemed completely unaware of their surroundings as he asked, “Where’s George?”

She just gave a quick shake of her head, gaze coming to rest yet again on Voldemort’s body.

“Hey.” He nudged her encouragingly with his shoulder. “We did it.”

She swallowed hard, blinking away the threat of tears for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

“What are you doing in here?” he probed gently.

“W-waiting,” she rasped, voice hoarse from overuse.

“Alright.” Neville nodded, sliding over to settle in beside her. His injured leg stuck out at an odd angle in front of him, stiff and useless. “I’ll wait with you.”

Her head fell to his shoulder, and he cast a confident arm around her.

“You wanna hold this?” he asked, offering the sword out to her.

She gestured vaguely towards herself. “Slytherin.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, “Bravest Slytherin I ever met.”

There was a strange sort of comfort to be had in the silence that settled in around them. And, for a long time, Lestrange and Longbottom just clung to one another in that cold, still room. After a while, Ophelia even felt her eyes beginning to fall closed.

The sound of approaching footsteps shook them from their trance, and they turned to see Harry, Ron, and Hermione pass the open door. Harry paused, stepping back to look in on them. He took in the sight with a furrowed brow, lips parted as though he were searching for something to say. And then he turned to his friends and said, “Go on back. I’ll be there in a minute.”

They watched him approach, watched him sink to the ground beside them and settle in to join their strange vigil. And, all at once, Ophelia knew what had to be done. She tightened her grip on her wand, raising it towards the corpse.

“Can I?” she murmured, glancing over at Harry.

After a long beat, he nodded. “Yeah.”

It was as though he had released her. No sooner had he spoken than a jet of searing flame shot forth from her wand, instantly catching on the faded robes. It was joined by two more streams of fire, from either side of her. Their flames crawled across the body until it was engulfed; obscured by light and absolving heat. Ophelia set her wand down, opened her palms to her companions. They followed suit, clasping her hands in theirs, and together, they watched as the man who had so deliberately stolen each of their parents away burned down to nothing.

Undeniably powerful. Undeniably evil. But in the end, only a man.

And when the fire died, and the body of Lord Voldemort lay in ashes before her, Ophelia was suddenly struck by the realization that the world was still turning. Time was still ticking by, measured out before her by the line of the sun that had crept steadily across the stone floor while they’d been sitting here. She had been expecting catharsis. Relief, tears, _something_. But it did not come.

She had survived. She hadn’t meant to survive. And now, there was nothing left to do but keep surviving.


End file.
